There's this thing that's been happening with increasing regularity the last few months. I sit down to write, and I lock up. And I can't imagine anything more terrifying for someone in my position. I'll have an idea (which used to be the hardest part), but then I can't find the tone, the words, the characters. For me, writing is never easy. It's
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I'll also hope for the world to treat you more gently, so that you're more likely to be in the mood to be out, observing and interacting. The world is far moe interesting with you in it. (I can agree with Lecter without being like Lecter.)
And I'll remain glad that you have people who understand you. Having the sypathetic ears of Spooky, Neil, Poppy and Harlan can be a gladdening thing. Much better to have all of them in your corner than on the other side of the ring. (This may be the first boxing metaphor ever in your journal.)
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This is one of those times when it kind of sucks to be self-aware, isn't it? I know the problems, I know the solutions or at least the paths towards the solutions, but both the problems and the solutions are tough.
And it's not really a new problem. I've seen this coming since at least 2003, but it just keeps getting worse. Which is one of the really frustrating aspects. Identifying (and, actually, having predicted) the problem is insufficient.
o that you're more likely to be in the mood to be out, observing and interacting.
I am trying.
I can agree with Lecter without being like Lecter.
I often do, myself.
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I often do, myself.
I remember in the early 90s how, according to some psychiatrists, patients were telling them they hoped for a psychiatrist as perceptive as Lecter...and it seemed some patients didn't add the caveat that they'd also prefer their psychiatrists not EAT PEOPLE. Made some psychiatrists a little uncomfortable. But Lecter is an attractive personality, in his way. At least compelling. Still, uncomfortable. (Like how I still feel a little uncomfortable with how I hope I can be a partner and lover like Oz from Buffy -- except for the whole turning into a ravening werewolf thing.)
I am trying.
Do what you can. Simple advice, but good.
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except for the whole turning into a ravening werewolf thing.
C'mon. That's like a cake with no frosting.
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Although pricey, a professional massage can sometimes work wonders.
As it happens, Spooky's sister is a professional masseuse. But, alas, she's in faraway Brooklyn.
And yeah, stress begets stress begets stress ad infinitum.
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Exercise helps, too. Perhaps a nice bicycle ride
I'm working on that, as well. Though, because I have so much trouble with my feet (numbness and pain from neuromas in both), I can't do bicycles.
(or a damned vigorous rogering ... I'm sure Spooky would be happy to oblige).
Now, now...you'll make me blush.
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I love that sort of thing, and its hard not to bring everything home with me...
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so many people walk without looking down to see where they are putting their feet, the score of the moonstone is amazing, and beach glass.
Truthfully, it's hard for me to remember to look up.
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Thank you for taking the time to write all that out.
If your publishers start bitching, just say, 'Would you rather me send you shit now, or send you gold later?'
They would reply, in most cases, that they have no say in the matter, that they have deadlines of their own imposed from above, and that if it isn't my best, well, than it isn't my best. Better luck next time. It's happened more than once.
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