I'm sleep deprived again. What a surprise. When I lie down and try to sleep all these words start shifting through my head, demanding that I give them a voice. And I do. After much tossing and turning, they finally persuade me to open up the word processor and paint a pretty (or more often unsettling) picture.
But they only come in short bursts, and it seems I never really get them all. When the marbles are frequently spilled, sometimes they roll under the furniture or something and are forgotten.
This has to do with me not finishing a novel yet. Anyone got something to smash this Procrastination Bug with? I will smash him good. The show must go on!
Eh, there's plenty of time of course, but it sure would be nice to have a finished novel. Just so I can go back and read it and think, "wow, I put all this chaos together and turned it into something meaningful." Makes me think of Steven King's On Writing, a very helpful guide for the creatively constipated. (urrgh) He said that ultimately, what you write is for you. It starts off a pure raw child of your mind and then you dress it up and give it a place to go, as in, to the readers.
I haven 't been protagonizing as much lately. Life outside the plastic box and all its rabbit holes keeps one busy, but I've also felt rather antisocial. Just waiting for some things to fall into place so I can let go of several pent up breaths.
Well, that be it for now. My eyes feel like they're going to crawl out of their sockets, grow to gigantic proportions, sprout some spiffy looking spider legs, and maul the neighbors.