Thursday, January 31, 2008


It's a sad day when I'd rather clean the bathroom and mop than sit on my ass and write.

Then I remembered that it's Thursday and I don't have to write. Not today. It's a research/study day! And you know what qualifies as "research"? Watching movies! Reading books! Surfing the internet! Reading smut on the internet!! Reading the newspaper! Hanging out in the mall!! Going shopping!! Even watching talk shows, soaps, and daytime judge shows!! And what qualifies as "study"? Reading and responding to things on message boards!! Reading books!! Even role-playing online!!


See, I did a fairly good job of cutting myself off from the world a while back. The world annoys me. It grates violently on my nerves and so much of it disgusts me. More times than not, I prefer to be alone. Isolated. Completely and totally. No television. No music. No phones. No outside influences. Just me. I'd do well in one of those monasteries hidden in Tibet or some other such place.

The problem? I all but stop writing when I'm isolated. There's no spark. There's no drive. There's a whole lot of staring and meditating and listening to the blood flowing through my veins and to the noises inside my head. But there's no writing. No creativity of any sort, actually.

I've known for a long time that I need the world and that I need contact with people. In all but a few isolated cases I tolerated the need for the world grudgingly. I never truly accepted the need.

Until now.

And you know what? Since letting go of that almost desperate desire for complete isolation and accepting that I need the world, I've been writing. Ok, so technically it's been REwriting, but it's still progress. And I'm starting to have ideas again. The creativity is coming as a trickle, but it's coming.

And I'm itching to write. Really... write. I've got smut in progress. I've got Ophelia things in progress. I've got a class project -- a story about a bookish pacifist who, in a fit of grief, becomes a demon-hunter and, not knowing he's been lied to, goes after the demon that reportedly killed his cloistered sister -- in progress. And Holly was poking my brain last night.

Maybe I will write a little later today. But if I don't, I'm not going to sweat it because, technically, today is a research and study day.

I'm feeling a little smutty so I'm going to go do a little research now...

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Possibly great idea vs. my own morality

Last night I had a great idea for a book. Actually, it's not a new idea, just one I found myself revisiting. Again. The story is ripe for the picking.

What's important to know, and really the entire issue, is that one of the main characters is loosely based on a woman I met online and is, thankfully, no longer part of my life.

Giving more thought to the ideas I had last night, I jotted down some notes this morning. I think this could work. Yes, it would be a rather unconventional book and chances of it ever being snuggled by a publisher would be slim at best. I realize that. I've tumbled this around in my head most of the night (sometimes sleepless nights are great) looking at it from all sorts of angles.

I also realize that it would be fairly therapeutic and educational for me, too. Therapeutic in that if I dedicate 50,000+ words to the bitch she'll finally be out of my system and I can shrug off the unease I feel any time I run into her on the internet, because I'm finding that she's everyfuckingwhere and it's driving me batty with the "can't go there, she's there and it'll cause problems" thoughts. It would be educational in that it would get me (1) plotting (because I absolutely SUCK at plotting) and (2) focused on something larger than a few thousand words. I'm sure there's more, but those are the highlights.

But it would also be extremely petty and even a bit vindictive of me to follow through with this idea, and that bothers me. The thought that I'm actually considering doing it bothers me. She's nothing to me, and yet she has managed to shove parts of my life into a blender, push the frappe button and then leave the damned thing running while she storms out in a tissy screaming about how evil I am. She's a highly destructive force of --

Of what? Energy? Maybe. I'm not sure what the most accurate word would be.

She's a petty, manipulative, destructive, self-centered, lying bitch. But does that give me the right to mock her in a story? Granted, such people often don't deserve the consideration or generosity (let alone compassion) of others, but if I did it -- if I wrote this book -- what would that make me?

Interestingly enough, my "tarot card of the day" is Justice.


This Deck: Morgan-Greer

General Meaning: Traditionally, what has been known as the Justice card has to do with moral sensitivity and that which gives rise to empathy, compassion and a sense of fairness. Since the time of Solomon, this image has represented a standard for the humane and fair-minded treatment of other beings.

Often including the image of a fulcrum which helps to balance competing needs against the greater good, and a two-edged sword to symbolize the precision needed to make clear judgments, this card reminds us to be careful to attend to important details. It's a mistake to overlook or minimize anything where this card is concerned. The law of Karma is represented here -- what goes around comes around.

I think this deserves further thought. But not right now. I have more important things to do at the moment.

Oct. 23 - 100 words

I can’t sit in my current desk chair for more than 10-15 minutes before my ass starts going numb and my legs start aching. The damnable thing is also causing all sorts of havoc with the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back because of the lack of support. At this point, I would rather clean than sit at the computer and write. And so I clean. I actively watch tv. I cook. I do anything and everything I possibly can that will keep me out of this nefarious torture device dug up from some dungeon in the Middle Ages.

Oct. 22 - 100 words

gun fire Seoul cathedral stained glass rock hoop earring conch shell liquor store acne grass chocolate brownies casino desert lake map cave painting treasure bee chest stars column seal newscast blazer ugly paint bikini beach football picture practice chain link fence hall double standard flag therapy green plaid oil boulder bakery clothespin handcuffs concussion rottweiler archeology dig soil samples body decomposition mercury murder Santa Anna Winds hurricane lightning ice storm moron stupid ass library reckless patch beard piglets stabbed ghost spirit raw meat cow button box tracker oil wax sucker bears missile lava play hard grain whiskey kite explosion hat

Oct. 21 - 100 words

pink satin tile wood motorcycle brunette green coffee codex winter snow full moon cow camera waterfall canyon laptop black and white film hot rod kittens oak tree large kitchen tile floor platypus venom fire glass doors rosary peacock feathers priest assassin seaweed brownies eyeball cookies glow stick shower cobalt silver skull pain glasses leather jacket horse race hunting desert salt mine monkey bridge cable spoon shattered glass razor cards angel demon woodpecker cigarette massage shark green beret mime scarf pumpkin vertigo daisy elephant bells dragon cave pendant brick copper orange muscle car club scissors frog umbrella sword emerald denim boots

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Oct. 20 - 100 words

The problem I’m having with the one hundred words a day is that I’m treating it as a separate assignment, and it really shouldn’t be. I suppose that sometimes it could or should be, but not all the time.

What I need to do is shift my focus from “write one hundred words a day and have it make some sort of sense” to “pound out two thousand or so words a day and throw out a random excerpt of exactly one hundred words”.

Or, you know, I could just write the first one hundred words that come to mind.

Oct. 19 - 100 words

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, go to sleep my little baby. When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.

Dia yelled and bolted upright in bed, frantically clawing at the sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his body. With large hands balled and ready for a fight, he looked around for someone to hit and blinked in confusion when he found no one.

The flashing red neon sign over the twenty-four hour porn shop across the street lit the tiny room and cut through Dia’s confusion.

Breathing raggedly, Dia slowly rubbed away the sweat beaded on his brow. “Damned nightmares.”