I got distracted with everything but this blog and forgot to start here. Perhaps that is why my brain is constipated tonight--there is no flow, no sense of direction. I have cerebral thoughts and ideas, but no passion to put into them, no reason to make them alive. Sammy is a transparent character in less than 10,000 words right now and no person.
They are all characters and contrived and desperate. Every one of them is desperate because this is all they have, their only chance to live, and I am the poor vessel chosen to bring them to an uncaring world.
Ugh. It is melodramatic, that is for sure.
The more I write, the more I realize I will have to write. There are an absurd number of words to be written so far, and what is there needs years of work to make readable. As it is, I have the accolades of people whose compliments are insulting--this is crap, I know it is crap, do not patronize me.
I suppose if I simply can't get published, I can always just twist the ending to mention Jesus and settle into the friendly (if mind-numbing) world of Christian fiction. Perhaps I should be there in the first place; after all, I am a Christian. But I simply can't believe writing hokey stories of salvation for bored and listless housewives is a worthy pursuit.
Is that my call, Lord? (Please no.)
--Ice cream break--
Even this post is crap. This is stupid. It is not my night.
Perhaps if I just write I will soon enough find something worth saving. Or something worth throwing out in a fit of cleansing. I suppose either one will be cathartic at some point or another, and even necessary.
No comments:
Post a Comment