Laura looks from her blank white screen and blinking cursor to her motionless fingertips to the four pound tub of red licorice on her desk, and thinks of the improbability of having lost her mind for real this time
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I feel like I fell off the face of the earth for a month, and I don't feel like turning the experience into a literary offering just yet. So with my mind locked on that and my internal dialog informing me that my pen had better not try any words relating to it...
Stories aren't forthcoming.
In a week I should be in good working order again. I think. In a week I start a painting I've been dreaming up for a few months now, and I've got some preliminary sketches for another I have in mind.
I was just wishing, the other night, that when I woke up the next morning, all the editing and writing I'm behind on will have been completed by magic gnomes who wish to make me their princess.
I find it charming when people assume that making art is easy. That it doesn't require every bit as much determination and dedication as anything else. That people think that just because we love it doesn't mean it isn't really hard sometimes. Books don't drift from the sky on a shaft of golden light, fully written and profound, unquestionably beautiful and full of Truth. People write them. And then they stop. And then they force themselves to start again. And then they get to the climax and realize they screwed up chapter two, and when they fix chapter two, continuity is off and they have to edit out an entire subplot that had set off one of the deeper elements, thematically speaking. And then they realize exactly what will fix everything, decide to do it in the morning, and forget by dawn. And then they maybe finish. Then they edit. Again and again, until they hate the story and wonder why they wrote it to begin with, questioning everything from 'Is anybody even going to want to read this?' to 'Maybe I should have become
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I kind of promised myself I was going to wake Maika up and cause Mordor to stir within the quiet of Elvenhome, and though I'm the one who will probably benefit most from it - because even if there's no incessant reminder I know that a tiny part of me's continually disturbed that her subplot was never finished - I felt that perhaps you should be the main person to whom I'll 'dedicate' (for want of a more appropriate term) it. But apparently it's not easy to resuscitate a story that is supposedly already enjoying its well-earned repose, and not just because I have to write it alone even though I really shouldn't. It's not so much a question of whether or not you would approve of me putting words to Roggie's mouth than one of whether it is right to awaken them all just to relieve my guilt.
Anyway, I hope you get over that soon. I miss reading your writings.
Well, I'll be posting whatever becomes of it (if anything ever becomes of it) here on LJ, so it will be open for your suggestions or corrections. If ever.
ATM2 was my first RPG, and it certainly weighs on me that I didn't even get to finish it. I have so many ideas bouncing around my head, most of them clawing at my brain to let them go. (One of them's for one of the photos you once posted.) Sometimes I'm introspective enough to feel the scratches.
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I hope things turn around for you soon. Writer's block sucks.
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Stories aren't forthcoming.
In a week I should be in good working order again. I think. In a week I start a painting I've been dreaming up for a few months now, and I've got some preliminary sketches for another I have in mind.
Marabou storks shall take over the world.
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Maybe tonight.
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Anyway, I hope you get over that soon. I miss reading your writings.
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2) I'm rather flattered that you still think of ATM2, much less that you still want to write some of it.
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ATM2 was my first RPG, and it certainly weighs on me that I didn't even get to finish it. I have so many ideas bouncing around my head, most of them clawing at my brain to let them go. (One of them's for one of the photos you once posted.) Sometimes I'm introspective enough to feel the scratches.
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