I’ve been sitting down thinking “I need to write the best science fiction novel of the 21st century!” or “I need to write something that will sell a million copies!” or just “I need to write well.” These are all useless mindsets.
It was exhilarating to treat creative writing like a full-time job, if only for one day, and it has borne a lot of juicy imagination fruits.
My gift to myself this Christmas was planning absolutely nothing on Boxing Day so I could devote eight hours to Tabula.
Sarah is sure there are fairies at the heart of each light making them glow, she almost sees their outline each time a light fades. She imagines crawling out onto the wing and feels giddy.
I feel like I've sunk into the belly of a story-hoarding beast. I can dimly see the mouth and I'm trying to climb out with ladders made from sentences. But often I find they only lead me deeper into the guts.
I’m having trouble getting through King's 'The Gunslinger'. Not because the story is bad, but because I’m only on page 61 and already the treatment of women is deeply shitty.
The primary message seems to be this: a literal lie, told solely for the joy of telling it and hearing it, can be a beautiful thing.
There’s a little voice in my head saying “Why bother? It’s a lot of effort and they’ll never pick you”, but I am flipping that little voice the bird and forging ahead.
In his darkest hours he'd always found comfort in the thought that the world itself might just be a particularly vivid dream in the mind of some ageless sleeper. But, as he heard footsteps approaching outside the hut, the thought seemed dry and impotent against this wet morning that lay quiet before him, in wait for his blood.
Lately I've been trying to find motivation, so I've been playing with gamification. That rhymes.