Lately, my mind has been abuzz with new story leads/ideas, and I’m just not in a social mood to share and be judged. I don’t want to be judged this week, okay?
I went on Twitter blackout for the same reason. There’s no way my boiling brain can handle following what 172 people are doing every thirty-five-and-a-half minutes. Half the time, there’s really not so much of a smirk. Life bleeds. It laughs. It dies.
Each night, I shut off the Geemail, the Twitter, the Yahooey Messenger and the Firey-Fox gateway and plug in to my iPod. Me and Marilyn Manson, or the sexy growl of Concrete Blonde, and my fingers just start making up stuff of their own accord.
I haven’t been contributing to my story blogs. I’m sorry. Keep me in your list, and you’ll know as soon as I post new installments of the parallel adventures. Yes, they are relevant, just different points in time. One day you’ll raise your eyebrows and go “Aha.”
I’ve written a little bit of the story, the core story that has been burning my brain cells since 2001. It’s terrifying as hell, because I don’t want to screw it up, you know? I still have that dream-delivered idea of the hell-pit, but I have no idea how to present that one. I need to learn how to write scripts, it’d be a terrific movie.
Tool inspires, did you know that? It’s my safety. Putting that music on nearly guarantees that I’ll at least get a blip on the imagination radar.
You know, I don’t know if I want to be published anymore. Sounds silly, so I’ll not elaborate. Call me disillusioned with the entire scene.
I did find something surprisingly enjoyable: helping other writers and writing silly short stories for little magazines. I like quirky, unique, and yes, even grotesque, if you will. I also seem to love commas, judging from the previous sentence. Never said I was perfect.
I did beta reads for two people, both times being that voice in the back of your head personified. I don't do ass-patting, and please shoot me if I do.
I’ve met artists that can’t draw hands. Hands are everywhere, in fact most of us alive are equipped with two very convenient models. So what do the artists do about this?
They learn to draw hands or more common, hide them in every single bloody picture they draw or paint. Who besides Mr. Belvedere and M stands with their hands tucked behind their back?
Same thing goes for writing. It might be the lack of an active voice, or action to detail. Perhaps dialogue is not your strength. Or maybe it’s overpowering, drawn out, and painfully dull.
When you paint your picture with words, do you hide the hard parts?