it had been a long time since i'd last regretted turning the last page of a book for nothing but the right reasons. then Jeff Smith's Bone reset the marker. two days and counting...i'm rarely a straight-up optimist, but i find myself enthusiastically wondering whence the next absotively wonderrific reading experience will come? perhaps the next time i turn Bone's last page...
*
a sure sign that a lot of time has passed is when events start getting jumbled up in my head. on second thought, no, i suppose that never takes more than a few days, but there you go. numbers rarely help, but sometimes they do. for instance: the time from about midway through 2005 to the beginning of this year, 2007, seems to have been the most progressive period in my life thus far. the past two years have been rather eventful, though the past few months have seen me, well, catching up with myself, i suppose. or, when i'm feeling pessimistic, only getting left behind.
it occurred to me just now that, yes, it has been that long, and it happened when i realized that the man who inspired me to begin this journey in the first place is currently back home, potentially inspiring a whole new batch of schmucks and schmoes like me to pack their bags and follow their dreams wherever they may lead. and, hopefully, a few bastards and bastardesses with real talent as well. while me, i'm stuck here, alone, blogging from nowhere.
was it ever a good idea? even now it's hard to tell. answering one set of 'what-ifs' only spawns more 'what-ifs'. but if i were to allow myself any regret, well, best not to think about that, i suppose.
on the final stretch of the second draft of Spooky. barring one less-than-mediocre short story and a thousand words or so of failed pornography, practically all of my writing mind in the last three months has been dedicated to trying to get this thing to work. and while the second draft is, imho, a vast improvement on the first, i'm finding myself increasingly convinced i'm unequal to the task.
as some bloke over at Uncle Zip's Window pointed out, it's probably the most devastating, insulting, and yet necessary question to ask anyone who's ever had the hubris to pick up a pen (or word processor) and make stuff up: maybe i'm not a writer.
and then i sigh. shove the sleeves past my bony elbows. crack my knuckles. play a few rounds of solitaire. and write.
what else can i call myself now?
1 comment:
Heh. Listen to charles' recordings of the Gaiman speeches, especially at the Subic signing. Pretty hopeful stuff. Especially no elves.
(Wish he had also recorded Neil's conversation with Dean. It's pretty insightful as Dean asked Neil how he managed to pull off living on being a writer.)
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