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i want that.
Aug. 15th, 2007 11:00 pmI just finished a book titled Master of Verona, which is written by a Shakespearian actor/director, & is a backstory of sorts to Romeo and Juliet. It's also impossible to stop reading; I had read about fifty pages before, & read the entire rest of it (a few hundred pages more) tonight. It's wonderful--all full of plots & twists, settings that were evocative and confusing at the same time, characters with Italian names that I want to say all day, just the right amount of suspense and mystery without it being frustrating. (Also, apparently, two Shakespeare-related anagrams; I haven't found them yet.)
A few weeks ago I got all my old files back from Kristen, and some days ago I spent a couple hours before bed reading through a bunch of my fiction files. I feel ridiculously disconnected from them. The hundreds of megabytes of story based on the NCPS that Allie & I created feel so entirely connected to my two years at Northwest that I don't rightly know how to keep going on them. I have what feels like millions of fits and starts--files that number between one and five pages, no more--that are none of them bad, just lonely & unfinished. I rarely hate my writing; I just never finish anything. At the moment, I'm not annoyed, I'm just thinking. But sometimes that drives me crazy. How can I ever expect to be an author proper when the only things I finish a full draft of are poems, & them only rarely? I have a story (silly, but not bad), which I began in senior year of highschool. In three weeks I will begin my senior year of college. And is it finished? Of course not.
I have always wanted to do NaNoWriMo, although November is a terrible month for me. Mostly what I want is a reason to finish a draft, however botched & ridiculous it might be. If it's full, I can shape it. I can't shape bits & pieces of millions of puzzles that aren't the same picture. They all fall apart in my hands. Someday, at some point--sooner rather than later--I just want something done. Is that possible?
I leave in twenty days. I am going toward an adventure. It's my turn. It's time. There's just plenty that I'm going to hate leaving behind.
A few weeks ago I got all my old files back from Kristen, and some days ago I spent a couple hours before bed reading through a bunch of my fiction files. I feel ridiculously disconnected from them. The hundreds of megabytes of story based on the NCPS that Allie & I created feel so entirely connected to my two years at Northwest that I don't rightly know how to keep going on them. I have what feels like millions of fits and starts--files that number between one and five pages, no more--that are none of them bad, just lonely & unfinished. I rarely hate my writing; I just never finish anything. At the moment, I'm not annoyed, I'm just thinking. But sometimes that drives me crazy. How can I ever expect to be an author proper when the only things I finish a full draft of are poems, & them only rarely? I have a story (silly, but not bad), which I began in senior year of highschool. In three weeks I will begin my senior year of college. And is it finished? Of course not.
I have always wanted to do NaNoWriMo, although November is a terrible month for me. Mostly what I want is a reason to finish a draft, however botched & ridiculous it might be. If it's full, I can shape it. I can't shape bits & pieces of millions of puzzles that aren't the same picture. They all fall apart in my hands. Someday, at some point--sooner rather than later--I just want something done. Is that possible?
I leave in twenty days. I am going toward an adventure. It's my turn. It's time. There's just plenty that I'm going to hate leaving behind.
