(no subject)
I've been trying to be one of those DANCE WITH THE ONE WHAT BRUNG YA writers, you know, here is my project, and I will see it through to the bitter end.
Because actually, I'm one of those writers (or have become one of those writers, if I'm being kind) who never finish anything, just find some reason to walk away and start something new, again and again.
But although I care about the book I started, and feel that it has merit and might be of interest to others... it's basically a what-if story about my life, and I fucking hate my life these days, so every time I've tried to apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair, part of me has thrown this scary, toddler-at-the-supermarket tantrum, all I DON'T WANNA.
I think about hating my life enough when I'm out living it, you know?
Anyway it has occurred to me several times recently that basically all I watch on TV are supernatural dramas now that my Thursday night comedy block has gone down the terlet, and the first book I've read voraciously in years and years is A Game of Thrones--and that even though I've already seen all available episodes of the series.
I got to thinking about such as how all I read in high school were fantasies and supernatural horrors, and then suddenly I just went right off them and read nothing but literary fiction and I don't even know why. I got to thinking that I had this project a million years ago, this YA fantasy of all things, that I abandoned because I was so into it that the scope of it seemed far beyond my ability, and how it's basically the only thing I've ever written besides fan fiction that anybody found at all promising.
And I got to thinking about how the entire purpose of the DANCE WITH THE ONE WHAT BRUNG YA deal was to finish something and try and get it published, but now I don't have a tremendous amount of faith in that dream anymore. So what does it matter if narrow my focus that much, if writing whatever I want means I'll actually be writing?
Well, and so now the FUCK MY LIFE book is on hiatus, but not shelved, and I'm trying to reconstruct my notes from the YA fantasy--because I very cleverly destroyed the reams of pages of worldbuilding that I did for it--and I have the hint of a grain of a kernel of an idea for a Dean/Castiel story, which is called "Carnies!" and I'll thank you to preserve the exclamation point when you tell your friends. I know nobody else will, so I'm counting on you.
All of this is, at this moment, theoretical.
But when you consider that my FUCK MY LIFE book was considered actual even though I wasn't writing it...
Because actually, I'm one of those writers (or have become one of those writers, if I'm being kind) who never finish anything, just find some reason to walk away and start something new, again and again.
But although I care about the book I started, and feel that it has merit and might be of interest to others... it's basically a what-if story about my life, and I fucking hate my life these days, so every time I've tried to apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair, part of me has thrown this scary, toddler-at-the-supermarket tantrum, all I DON'T WANNA.
I think about hating my life enough when I'm out living it, you know?
Anyway it has occurred to me several times recently that basically all I watch on TV are supernatural dramas now that my Thursday night comedy block has gone down the terlet, and the first book I've read voraciously in years and years is A Game of Thrones--and that even though I've already seen all available episodes of the series.
I got to thinking about such as how all I read in high school were fantasies and supernatural horrors, and then suddenly I just went right off them and read nothing but literary fiction and I don't even know why. I got to thinking that I had this project a million years ago, this YA fantasy of all things, that I abandoned because I was so into it that the scope of it seemed far beyond my ability, and how it's basically the only thing I've ever written besides fan fiction that anybody found at all promising.
And I got to thinking about how the entire purpose of the DANCE WITH THE ONE WHAT BRUNG YA deal was to finish something and try and get it published, but now I don't have a tremendous amount of faith in that dream anymore. So what does it matter if narrow my focus that much, if writing whatever I want means I'll actually be writing?
Well, and so now the FUCK MY LIFE book is on hiatus, but not shelved, and I'm trying to reconstruct my notes from the YA fantasy--because I very cleverly destroyed the reams of pages of worldbuilding that I did for it--and I have the hint of a grain of a kernel of an idea for a Dean/Castiel story, which is called "Carnies!" and I'll thank you to preserve the exclamation point when you tell your friends. I know nobody else will, so I'm counting on you.
All of this is, at this moment, theoretical.
But when you consider that my FUCK MY LIFE book was considered actual even though I wasn't writing it...