I should be writing. I was reading. Then I went to lunch with hubbins. Then Target. Then picked up a sickie at school. Sigh.
Thing is, I KNOW I should write, and I KNOW that waiting for the mood is bullshit. Truly, I look back at books I've written, books with good reviews, and I think, GodDAMN that was a bitch to write. Bled every fucking word.
But hey, it turned out okay.
So am I writing after that stellar self-motivational speech?
No. No I am not.
And so I'm blogging instead.
I'm weak, I tell ya. Weak. And a Procrastinator, First Class. My signature should follow with PFC.
I used to keep sketch pads. Now I keep moleskins. I realized I miss them, writing stuff down, crazy shit like what I dreamed and ate and stuff I gotta do and weird stuff I thunk up and bad drawings.
I've thought about doing a drawing a day. That would actually be quite good for me. I can find something on the internet to draw, surely.
Ugh. This is boring, too. Restlessness is dripping from every word. Sorry. I'll try and be more entertaining tomorrow. Here's a snippet of something I wrote the other day as a consolation prize. I think it's part of the best chapter I've written in awhile:
Saxen's blanket was a rough stretch of wool that did its tattered best to insulate her from the cold. Another relentless winter had closed its fist around Northern Canada and not even the earth itself could insulate its grip. How many winters had she spent underground? Her eyes flew open and stared into the twilight in her cell when the answer didn’t immediately come. Insanity might be curling its tendrils around her mind… her fingers tapped her hip as she counted.
Eight. Eight winters.
She breathed deep until her heart slowed and she fell into a restful trance where she could listen and think in the dark. Or not think, rather.
A ranger two cells down muttered ceaselessly. Another whined and cried like a babe in arms. She didn’t know how long they had been there, had never seen them but for gaunt shadows rocking on cots in the murk as guards led her down the corridor to play with her. But the insane prisoners were harbingers, foretelling her future better than any Lord Seer could. Immortality made for a long imprisonment.