I’ve determined that I have an emotionally abusive relationship with my muse.
Yesterday evening was a stupid evening. I think the inspiration center of my brain (open M-W 10AM-2PM, Th-F 8AM-11AM, closed S/Sun/and whenever the heck it feels like it) and the anxiety center of my brain (24/7/365–always there when you don’t need it!) are in the same grimy strip mall I call a mind. It seemed like any and all hope of ever writing anything half-way decent was crushed to crap by my own twisted logic. It was *lovely* I assure you. Hence, the above doodle.
This afternoon, during my lunch break, I resolved–still aching from the self-inflicted emo-blows of last night–to not worry about getting anything accomplished. Instead, I would only try *not* to worry. It was the voice of my protagonist which was throwing me into agonies, so I figured a little mindless, unproductive practice couldn’t hurt. As an exercise, I did this: Try to write the story of The Three Little Pigs in the protagonist’s voice. How would she tell the story?
500+ painstaking words on the second section of “THE UNTITLED NOVEL PROJECT” to now be nicknamed “DARK MATTER” because that was the original title way back when, and that’s how I refer to it in my head and in my notes/saves. And they’re not horrible. In fact, since I finished reading THE TERRIBLE HOURS last night, I really dug into the whole submarine rescue stuff.
Note: I just spared you from yet another attempt at my being “cute”. You can pay me back later.