Good morning, Readers!
There is so much going on in this incredible painting. I could stare at this all day. I found it on getwallpapers.com.
Last night, I streamed some more Death Stranding. It was actually much less annoying this time around than the last time. That was nice. I actually made progress, and my cursing and screaming were kept to a minimum. I'm sure my neighbours appreciated that.
In my writing, I have to say that making the shift to the new project was probably the right way to go. I wrote two thousand words on Tuesday, and another thousand yesterday. The story is going well so far, and it's done wonders for my writing self-esteem. I was really struggling there for a while. I am still a writer. Phew!
Now, this new project will probably never be published. For reasons. But honestly, though I have dreams of being a well-read author (requiring publishing, duh), that's not the primary reason I write. I write because there are a thousand voices in my head, each whispering their stories to me; quiet, but insistent. If I don't write them down, those voices become something like water torture.
A single drop of water is nothing. A single drop of water hitting the same place over and over and over in an unending rhythm is horrific. Those quiet voices are the same. They whisper and whisper and whisper, and no amount of ignoring those voices sends them away. They simply continue to whisper in their quiet insistence until I write their words.
I write because I feel like I'd go mad if I didn't.
That doesn't mean, of course, that I'm content with just writing. I have a weird ambitious streak that keeps pushing me to do better, and be better, and get 'seen,' as it were. That part's not going so well, but the writing?
The writing is chugging along just fine.
So... what will I do with this thing I'm writing when I'm done? I have no idea. I have a few enquiries I suppose I could make, but other than that, I may just end up putting it in a drawer and never looking at it again.
And then I will sleep with a smile on my face, because that's one less whisper in my ear.
Then I'll have a nightmare, because a new whisper will replace it, but that's neither here nor there.
Writing is, for me, a peculiar kind of madness.
And so I'll writing this thing that has no hope of publication until the story is done, just as I'll inevitably return to the project I've temporarily abandoned and finish it.
For now, though, I've returned to having fun with my writing.
I'm off to do just that.
Ciao!
In my writing, I have to say that making the shift to the new project was probably the right way to go. I wrote two thousand words on Tuesday, and another thousand yesterday. The story is going well so far, and it's done wonders for my writing self-esteem. I was really struggling there for a while. I am still a writer. Phew!
Now, this new project will probably never be published. For reasons. But honestly, though I have dreams of being a well-read author (requiring publishing, duh), that's not the primary reason I write. I write because there are a thousand voices in my head, each whispering their stories to me; quiet, but insistent. If I don't write them down, those voices become something like water torture.
A single drop of water is nothing. A single drop of water hitting the same place over and over and over in an unending rhythm is horrific. Those quiet voices are the same. They whisper and whisper and whisper, and no amount of ignoring those voices sends them away. They simply continue to whisper in their quiet insistence until I write their words.
I write because I feel like I'd go mad if I didn't.
That doesn't mean, of course, that I'm content with just writing. I have a weird ambitious streak that keeps pushing me to do better, and be better, and get 'seen,' as it were. That part's not going so well, but the writing?
The writing is chugging along just fine.
So... what will I do with this thing I'm writing when I'm done? I have no idea. I have a few enquiries I suppose I could make, but other than that, I may just end up putting it in a drawer and never looking at it again.
And then I will sleep with a smile on my face, because that's one less whisper in my ear.
Then I'll have a nightmare, because a new whisper will replace it, but that's neither here nor there.
Writing is, for me, a peculiar kind of madness.
And so I'll writing this thing that has no hope of publication until the story is done, just as I'll inevitably return to the project I've temporarily abandoned and finish it.
For now, though, I've returned to having fun with my writing.
I'm off to do just that.
Ciao!
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