2004-03-20
Climax...where's denument?
Instensity is the proper adjective for this day--long work shift (didn't even notice the time pass by), long and excrutiating work-out...only excrutiating an hour after the fact.
There's no soundtrack to my life, usually people rave about one particular cd by one particular artist and claim "This...this is the soundtrack to my life"...but my life is so diverse that I couldn't just have one cd. Obviously, I would mix in Malice Mizer with a bit of Vivaldi and Bocelli.
I was reading dailycandy, and all of a sudden, it hit me: am I the only girl that reads this? Why do I even read it? It inspires me, to perpetuate my daily routines--meaningless rituals.
It has been too long since I have last written for my novel--too long. This is only my first work, and it's not even edited yet, save for the very helpful nudges given to me by Vin (they are very much appreciated), and the unsuspecting reader's viewpoint that I get from my boyfriend. Other than that, I have nothing. I have to feel the words, those descriptions...at times I think that I don't even know where I'm going with the plot. I begin to feel as if that book is just an excuse to fill page after page with elaborate descriptions articulating feelings not yet felt, or too distant to feel once more. I go on and on at certain parts of the story, and if you look at it, the entire book is written half narrative, half omniscient. My first book...which will never see the light of day--this, I promise you. I dream about others reading my work, but I doubt that I would allow that to happen.
Someone once said to me that she thought I didn't realize how good my writing is...and perhaps I don't. Then again, who is to say whether or not I am indeed talented.
The question is, can I move with my writing? When someone reads my words, are they slapped across their face by these fabrications of my soul--my words? What do I inspire?