All I ever do anymore is write about writing. Instead, of actually writing… Soon it will be me writing about me writing about writing. Which, at this point we may already be there. I have been busy. Maybe the understatement of a century. Law School blows, and is horribly difficult. I love it, but for each ounce of love is an additional unbearable weight for me to drag around in my oversized backpack.
I enjoy it, but it is pain. Although, there is progress. I have about 30k words of unformed story. A series of words, sentences, and paragraphs that are horribly disjointed, and in desperate need of some sort of contextual chiropractry. I’m trying to add meaning to a bunch of works that I slave over for a few weeks, and then ignore until the need to see myself as creative makes me care again.
Writing appeals to me now because I should be studying. Law School exam’s are the embodiment of absolute doom. So naturally I let the doom get closer while i try to re-prioritize my life so studying is somewhere after verifying the thread counts on my sheets and alphabetizing the documents in my file folders.
I do have a vision for what I want to write. It scares me. Im afraid it will be stupid. I also find myself writing characters that are just slight variations of me. I wonder if this is a side effect of being more friendly to people. I see beauty in more people, and when one sees beauty they tend to want to be a part of it. Either way, 30k words now fill a document cleverly named “Writing”.
My path to novel-hood would be best defined by Xeno’s arrow. I will always find a midpoint, and perpetuate the idea that I am moving nowhere.