The characters are starting to get really fucking loud. Annoying little fucks, determined to poke at your inner ear, whining about their little bouts of existential angst. I mean, that's so been DONE.
And the fucking stories... the histories. I've found myself walking the streets of my still forming universe in my dreams, fascinated by the things that have grown since my last delirious visit.
There are those who would flutter and fret about my chronic insomnia, that strangest of wars with my self. The truth bends my mind even as I bend your ear.
I'm a coward.
Writing scares me. With a little push I could lose myself in the streets of New Vegas, on the run from renegade auditors with FS Jones, in a quantatech duplicate of a 1969 GTO.
But it's lonely there. I don't want to be alone. It scares me.
But Richard Bach, damn his eyes, spoke the simple truth when he described a tale yet written as something that grows into a great beast that lays it's great paws upon you and gently, but firmly, demands to be told.
I don't know why. That scares me. What the fuck IS My motivation to write these days? If I have no concrete, easily explained reason, then what is that rapidly approaching light bearing down on me with a frightening cacophony?
Feh. I refuse to have meat tossed in every alternate Thursday, with monthly hose-downs on order of the local board of health.
And there it is -- I adore writing sentences like that. I can't help it. When I stop worrying about what people think of my writing style, it actually emerges. I suspect it's another one of those annoying zen things. Like touch typing that first time, when the words just starting flowing from your fingers. Thought made solid, a physical manifestation (and yes, smart ass, even these electronic ghosts are as real as ink on paper) of my will. Goddess, have you ever really considered the awesome power of a writer? Fuck wealth, fame can go live forever with it's self absorbed head up it's metaphorical ass -- this is the power to create whole universes.
Asimov was found of noting that "writers hate to write, but love having written." That confused me for a very long time. I think I've decided that it's both true... and false.
I'm terrified of what writing will do to me. I hate... I hate change.
Like I said, I'm a coward.
There are writers out there. People who know what it's like. Inspiration never happens when it's fucking convenient. To them, I humbly ask:
Pray for me.
[Music helps. I think I always knew that. It gets me to where I need to be. Forces open doors that I don't want help opening. I strongly suspect I will need to buy the members of "...And you will know us by the trail of dead" a drink or two when all of this is done.
Maybe even before.