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writing wickedly...
Mar. 7th, 2005 04:42 pmMy roommate bought Wicked yesterday for spring break reading and I am utterly hooked. Honestly. I read about a quarter of it last night before I forced myself to go to sleep, and I'm nearly finished, as I read all the way though lunch, after lunch, paused to do philosophy, and then gave up on doing math homework and read instead. Gawd. It's incredible, and it's one of those books that I can't quite put my finger on why it's so good. It's simply terribly compelling (which is a dorky book-review word, shaddap, it's true), and I cannot put it down. (I know I have to, and I will, to do my math...in a minute. After the next chapter....) It's much darker than the musical--I assume, since I haven't actually seen the thing (buggeralleIwilldammitIwill), but inferring from the songs anyway--and in a way rather depressing. But in the best possible way. I have all these great words to to describe it but they're all stolen from the quotes on the back, so I'm not going to bother. But...aiieee. It's so solid, so real and sad. I'll probably write more when I actually have finished.
I love reading books like that. They make me want to write, and write properly. I realized, in Dickey's class on Saturday, that I haven't actually worked on writing in a good while, if I ever really did. Writing was always play to me--it still is, writing is my play and my joy and one of the acts in life I simply must do, no questions asked (theater's another, of course, in a different way). But I did realize, when I was trying to map Mona's character in the method we were learning, that although I have played with writing nearly forever, I haven't worked on it. Don't get me wrong--the work is play, too. That's what makes writing so brilliant--work is play. But I need the work part of it, too. That's what's holding me back, preventing me from finishing Zen, and Elysia's story, and the other one that's stuck on my old computer that I can't even remember the name of, it's been so long. It used to be, "I haven't written that in a while...I didn't really feel like it," and "Ohh, I feel like writing on that one now" when I open up the computer. I have to change that. Obviously it's going to be hard, since the I-have-no-time-I'm-a-bloody-college-student excuse is valid and, unfortuntely, very very true. But I need to--and I want to as well, oh so much--to sit down with pages and pages of notes on biological vampirism, and a character map for Sangay, and books on Regency English-French relations, and outlines for Elysia, and I want to work.
Steven Dietz said (in Fiction), "writers don't want to write. Writers want to have written." This is rather true a lot of the time. But right now, my fingers are itching for a pencil and paper, and printed out lines of words I've typed that need fixing and fleshing out. I want to write. Ohhhhlah, I love this feeling!
I love reading books like that. They make me want to write, and write properly. I realized, in Dickey's class on Saturday, that I haven't actually worked on writing in a good while, if I ever really did. Writing was always play to me--it still is, writing is my play and my joy and one of the acts in life I simply must do, no questions asked (theater's another, of course, in a different way). But I did realize, when I was trying to map Mona's character in the method we were learning, that although I have played with writing nearly forever, I haven't worked on it. Don't get me wrong--the work is play, too. That's what makes writing so brilliant--work is play. But I need the work part of it, too. That's what's holding me back, preventing me from finishing Zen, and Elysia's story, and the other one that's stuck on my old computer that I can't even remember the name of, it's been so long. It used to be, "I haven't written that in a while...I didn't really feel like it," and "Ohh, I feel like writing on that one now" when I open up the computer. I have to change that. Obviously it's going to be hard, since the I-have-no-time-I'm-a-bloody-college-student excuse is valid and, unfortuntely, very very true. But I need to--and I want to as well, oh so much--to sit down with pages and pages of notes on biological vampirism, and a character map for Sangay, and books on Regency English-French relations, and outlines for Elysia, and I want to work.
Steven Dietz said (in Fiction), "writers don't want to write. Writers want to have written." This is rather true a lot of the time. But right now, my fingers are itching for a pencil and paper, and printed out lines of words I've typed that need fixing and fleshing out. I want to write. Ohhhhlah, I love this feeling!
