Well, I think I’ll be able to get the hang of this soon enough. I am in the middle of a three-day weekend of sorts. I even turned my phone off (which may not have been a good idea, but I had the feeling that I would just continue to be stressed out if I was glancing at the phone every two minutes) I have not gamed in a while, although I do have Minecraft on my computer now. I worked really hard to make a cool looking house– and then moved on to another area. I can’t find any sheep though. I found enough to make one bed– but I’m afraid if I kill any more of them, I’ll be doomed.
Also, work on Zetty’s story has come to a grinding halt. So much of a halt that I haven’t even dreamt about things for her story in over a week. On the other hand, Overfide, my newest outlet of insanity, has been taking massive leaps in production. For anyone who missed the post on that, Overfide is something that hit me like a lead brick. To the face. Multiple times. With the force of a train.
Thanks to Overfide, I have once again tapped into that gory place in my brain that I haven’t been able to write from in ages. Let me give you an example of what I mean. A few weeks ago, I was really sleep-deprived and typing a memo to myself. Basically, trying to start a conversation with myself. Did I mention I was tired? Anyway, so I was typing, and suddenly:
“i just…. i havent’ had any fodder for writing, other than the story that has been dragging me by the hair. first Zetty’s story, then that flirtatious vampire story, and now this. This monster/masterpiece that attacked me. A story devoted to fear itself. Something everyone can relate to… although perhaps the story is more painful than i can let on. It is making me dredge things from the drain that is covered in dried blood. i’m clawing at it, trying to get it open. fingernails broken. fingertips busted. biting my tongue to keep from screaming with pain and or frustration….
my brain has been in this dark, dark place for a while. and i don’t know why. it is strange, and kind of enthralling….”
The next day, I recalled that I had typed something, and had no memory of what it was I had actually concocted. Upon reading it, I just sat there, feeling along the walls of my mind for that door that had been closed for so long. It is still open. I can finally write the way I once did.
There was a time when, when I wrote, I would stare into the screen, my fingers blurring over the keyboard, for up to 4 hours. And then, upon stopping, I would marvel at what I had produced, because, at that “delicate” age for me, this dark, terrible, tragic stuff that I was writing (about murder and the like, to be general) was coming out of nowhere, as if I were not the one truly writing it. Sometimes it’s still like that.
Oh, and some good news that is in no way related to what I just wrote: I should be able to get out of debt relatively quickly, if I could just find my landlord. She still leaves notes on my door, but I can’t find her, and when I call her, it goes straight to voicemail. This is worrisome, but I am confident that it will work out.
And an afterword: if anyone is interested in that “flirtatious vampire story” I mentioned in my night-time rant, tell me in the comments!