Notes from the Oast:
Ah, love of writing, there you are...
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I look down somewhat on histrionics in others which is why (despite being lamentably insecure) I attempt not to have them.
I'm not always successful, but a general carry over of this is a hatred of asking anyone what they think about anything I've created. It's therefore always a hit of instant happy when (quite unsolicited) someone says something nice - the more indepth and constructive the better.
I'd forgotten how utterly divine it is for a complete stranger to say 'What a wonderful story - write more!' Mostly I'd forgotten because it doesn't happen very often, hell, it doesn't happen often with people who know me let alone strangers. Sometimes it will happen with artwork, but pictures are so immediate it doesn't take much time to appreciate them. (It takes effort on behalf of the audience to appreciate a story simply because they have to spend time reading the damn thing first.) It's glorious to have someone random discussing stuff you've written in a vague GCSE Eng-Lit way - it makes my neurons squee and kick their boots together in delight.
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Poppy leaves do not contain opium. This is probably just as well.
Someone's piked my Silver. *looks funny at Wolf* Or I've left it somewhere. This vexes me.
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Marek giving me work (any work - and so far it's been stunning) is like some benevolent act of god. (Not sure which god. Thoth maybe?) And he is darling for it.
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My brain is still weird.
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Watching Sherlock Holmes didn't help. I want all their clothes. I also want to use words like 'singular', to take a 7% solution when bored, to have my laugh bode ill for somebody, for my mind to rebel at stagnation, and to be the sort of slightly bugnuts and brilliant bastard who can be vaguely cold and odd towards people and they excuse it because one is brilliant and slightly bugnuts.
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*Wonders how Kieran is these days*
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I'm unlikely to get what I want, but I'm hoping art projects will keep me occupied and maybe buy me a frockcoat...
=======
I look down somewhat on histrionics in others which is why (despite being lamentably insecure) I attempt not to have them.
I'm not always successful, but a general carry over of this is a hatred of asking anyone what they think about anything I've created. It's therefore always a hit of instant happy when (quite unsolicited) someone says something nice - the more indepth and constructive the better.
I'd forgotten how utterly divine it is for a complete stranger to say 'What a wonderful story - write more!' Mostly I'd forgotten because it doesn't happen very often, hell, it doesn't happen often with people who know me let alone strangers. Sometimes it will happen with artwork, but pictures are so immediate it doesn't take much time to appreciate them. (It takes effort on behalf of the audience to appreciate a story simply because they have to spend time reading the damn thing first.) It's glorious to have someone random discussing stuff you've written in a vague GCSE Eng-Lit way - it makes my neurons squee and kick their boots together in delight.
=======
Poppy leaves do not contain opium. This is probably just as well.
Someone's piked my Silver. *looks funny at Wolf* Or I've left it somewhere. This vexes me.
=======
Marek giving me work (any work - and so far it's been stunning) is like some benevolent act of god. (Not sure which god. Thoth maybe?) And he is darling for it.
=======
My brain is still weird.
=======
Watching Sherlock Holmes didn't help. I want all their clothes. I also want to use words like 'singular', to take a 7% solution when bored, to have my laugh bode ill for somebody, for my mind to rebel at stagnation, and to be the sort of slightly bugnuts and brilliant bastard who can be vaguely cold and odd towards people and they excuse it because one is brilliant and slightly bugnuts.
=======
*Wonders how Kieran is these days*
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I'm unlikely to get what I want, but I'm hoping art projects will keep me occupied and maybe buy me a frockcoat...