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04 September 2004 @ 12:20 am
Ultimate Dishonor.  
When I can't write, I get twitchy. I feel like my brain is spinning too fast in my head, and soon it'll cause me to explode, as though I were a femme-bot. I start reading fandoms for things I'm not even terribly interested in, hoping for something to jump start my brain.

I pace. I snap. I whine. I am generally a melodramatic brat, which is probably no fun for the people around me as it leads to me whining about how my ancestors are wailing and gnashing their teeth and saying that I am bringing ultimate dishonor down upon the family name. (I don't know how I get to these places in my head, I just often do.)

And more than anything else, I stare at the blinking cursor in word. I stare at it so long that it seems like it's sending me morse code messages -- probably things like 'BUY MORE BROCCOLI' and 'DRINK OVALTINE'. (I have been feeling the cravings for broccoli lately...yummy yummy yummy.)

I go crazy, like an addict, looking to get a fix. It's actually almost troubling, how much of a visceral reaction I have to not being able to write. I'm virtually incapable of being good humored about it, because the words are there, they're under my skin, they're coiling around me, and through me, and there are stories whispering in my ears, and God how I love telling them.

This is my Midnight Disease, as Michael Chabon would call it. Some nights, I just stay up and stare into the darkness, and I can see people and places and things, and words fitting neatly together into sentences that I pile into paragraphs.

Story telling is like building for me. I work my way up from the foundation, and when I watch myself write, when I watch the story just happen on paper, it's as though I'm watching construction.

It's a physical experience for me. Writing isn't cerebral and abstract, it's very hands on. I wade into myself, and I try to catch something pull back out. It's something I do with my whole self, and so when I can't do it -- it's like a dolphin not swimming, or a German shepherd not having a task to complete. (Do you know they'll get really depressed if they don't have things to do every day? Yeah, I just found that out. Weird, huh?)

But this is why I call myself a writer. Because this is my compulsion. This is what love and I feel a lot of the time like this is what I was meant to do, and maybe not in some ridiculous cosmic 'This is what I was born for' kind of way, just -- my life, and my chemistry have turned me into someone who needs to be able to tell stories.

In a few days, I'll probably be through the block. I'm like that; I go through slow times that drive me utterly batshit crazy (and probably lyra_sena crazy, too, because she has to deal with me) and then I burst back into productivity.

Until then, I'm going to try not to bring ultimate dishonor on my family. I'm not sure how I'll go about doing that, but I figure it's a pretty good plan, all told. *grins*
Current Mood: frustratedfrustrated
Current Music: Cannonball - Damien Rice
.: will - what the fuck are you on (obsessehackthis on September 3rd, 2004 09:46 pm (UTC)

I can *totally* understand and relate. About every six week my brain seizes up with too many ideas or burn out and I lose the plot. I drive everyone mental, sometimes I think I'll never write again, but then you just need to sit back and let the ideas percolate and build up. They'll tell you when it's time to be release them... you know, since they don't make mental prune juice.

Or, you could just get shit-faced and wait to start scrawling on napkins at the pub while your mates and the bartender look on before deciding to cut you off ;)
pure FORESHADOWING: broken supermannifra_idril on September 3rd, 2004 09:55 pm (UTC)
Mental prune juice needs to happen, damn it. *stomps foot petulantly*

Also -- I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one. Just tonight I was saying that my imagination was broken and that my writing life was over. That I was going to divide my life into 'back when I could write' and 'after the war'.

...I'm not sure which war. But I do know that I lost it.

*laughs* But you're right. I just need to be patient. Ish. Things will....work themselves out.

Soon, I hope. *fidgets and smooches you*
Adoable Frunklyra_sena on September 3rd, 2004 09:48 pm (UTC)
*sighs dramatically* You're already a dishonor, all the way around. No hope for you, my child!

But in other, less ridiculous sarcasm, you know how much I love you. How much I adore you. How I love our symbiosis; the way we understand and accept one another -- you're the violin to my cello. Driving me crazy? I don't know that I'd say that, because the thing is? I know how to handle you, and how to deal with this. We'll get through it, my love.

And oh, how the other side will be glorious.

*strokes your hair and kisses you gently on the forehead*
pure FORESHADOWING: ew bitch - crazyperfumenifra_idril on September 3rd, 2004 09:58 pm (UTC)
You love my dishonor so much it hurts you. I know it. You can't hide it.

Also? I love you madly. Madly enough to not even do the zombie thing. *nuggles*
when she smiles it's like a revelation: Snugfox1013 on September 4th, 2004 06:17 am (UTC)
*pets you soothingly*

*threatens the ancestors with brute force and very good cookies*

*snuggles you*
pure FORESHADOWING: broken supermannifra_idril on September 4th, 2004 11:14 am (UTC)
*destroys ancestors with mallets and steals their cookies*
Kim: lonelyTara [lavellebelle]simplelyric on September 4th, 2004 11:02 am (UTC)
I'm not sure I've ever come across anyone else who has broccoli cravings before. It's nice to know I'm not the only one. *g*
pure FORESHADOWING: brad sexnifra_idril on September 4th, 2004 11:15 am (UTC)
Broccoli rocks like whoa.
Kim: nonono see [elishavah]simplelyric on September 4th, 2004 11:19 am (UTC)
When I was little, my mom used to bribe me with broccoli rather than with dessert to get me to finish the rest of my food. I kid you not.