Obviously I've Started Writing Again
I've been writing more recently. For a couple of reasons. One, because someone reminded me that I could write. The larger reason is that I realized that after I started writing a bit more than I had been (I.E. anything at ALL) it snapped mental gears back into place that had been rusting and rotting for a span of months.
I let the parts of my brain capable of restructuring into a writing type engine just kind of... take a back seat to the art engines. But its summer now. And summer tends to mean nocturnal Grymm. No longer do I go to sleep at 3am because its too cold to continue scrawling. I stay up to 6 or 7 or 9. At once 5 or 6 am hits, the tiny prancing spirits that ignite the word furnace in my brain come out to play.
They shimmy through the cracks and they hug and embrace each other. Sharing their little stories with each other. They sweep up, they tidy. They laugh and cry and hoot over the tidbits they bring each other and lash them together into a single overly large and humorous match. Then they strike it against the cheek of an ugly baby and the light the creative forge.
I'm not a writer. But I am a lover of words. I have no interest in BEING a writer either. There's rules. There's patterns and taboos and legislation. I just like to let it flow. In the end, it tends to sound pretty good to me. I look back and my wordly scribblings and I'm entertained. That's all that counts as far as I'm concerned. That I'm entertained.
I've spent like the past two hours making notes in a small sketchbook concerning how ConQuest of the Aerolith-Mortis ends. Something I've never actually committed to words. Or even much coherent thought. But now the entire 12 issue-ish long series is outlined. Nestled amongst bits and pieces of conceptual art that's merely for my own reference.
I'm happy. As per usual, not everything is perfect, but I'm dealing with it. Ya know? Its nothing that's holding me back. Its nothing I'm considering worth dwelling on. It just doesn't outweigh the good. No matter how much it tries. Its almost 5:30 am and I feel good. My office window is open and letting in their lovely little cool breeze on occasion. I have lovely music playing. My back is reminding that it exists from laying on the bed unmoving and just writing. I am a creator. I create for you. I love you. But I really create for myself. Because I love myself even more. Except when it comes to a certain few people. I love them as much as I love myself.
I love it when the birds wake up and herald the light blue. I can feel that vague, almost insubstantial pre-dawn chill. It works itself up the body and summons forth a little shiver up the spine. It feels lovely.
I am a mesh of so many things. I can see it in the way I talk. The way I act. I am who I am because of those I've befriended and been entertained by. I take parts of them into myself and mix them around. And they spill back out across the page, across the screen, or dribbling across the air currents to reach inviting ears.
You don't know what I'm capable of. I'm not really sure myself. But let's find out. I'll show you as I go. Deal? Deal. I'm off.
I let the parts of my brain capable of restructuring into a writing type engine just kind of... take a back seat to the art engines. But its summer now. And summer tends to mean nocturnal Grymm. No longer do I go to sleep at 3am because its too cold to continue scrawling. I stay up to 6 or 7 or 9. At once 5 or 6 am hits, the tiny prancing spirits that ignite the word furnace in my brain come out to play.
They shimmy through the cracks and they hug and embrace each other. Sharing their little stories with each other. They sweep up, they tidy. They laugh and cry and hoot over the tidbits they bring each other and lash them together into a single overly large and humorous match. Then they strike it against the cheek of an ugly baby and the light the creative forge.
I'm not a writer. But I am a lover of words. I have no interest in BEING a writer either. There's rules. There's patterns and taboos and legislation. I just like to let it flow. In the end, it tends to sound pretty good to me. I look back and my wordly scribblings and I'm entertained. That's all that counts as far as I'm concerned. That I'm entertained.
I've spent like the past two hours making notes in a small sketchbook concerning how ConQuest of the Aerolith-Mortis ends. Something I've never actually committed to words. Or even much coherent thought. But now the entire 12 issue-ish long series is outlined. Nestled amongst bits and pieces of conceptual art that's merely for my own reference.
I'm happy. As per usual, not everything is perfect, but I'm dealing with it. Ya know? Its nothing that's holding me back. Its nothing I'm considering worth dwelling on. It just doesn't outweigh the good. No matter how much it tries. Its almost 5:30 am and I feel good. My office window is open and letting in their lovely little cool breeze on occasion. I have lovely music playing. My back is reminding that it exists from laying on the bed unmoving and just writing. I am a creator. I create for you. I love you. But I really create for myself. Because I love myself even more. Except when it comes to a certain few people. I love them as much as I love myself.
I love it when the birds wake up and herald the light blue. I can feel that vague, almost insubstantial pre-dawn chill. It works itself up the body and summons forth a little shiver up the spine. It feels lovely.
I am a mesh of so many things. I can see it in the way I talk. The way I act. I am who I am because of those I've befriended and been entertained by. I take parts of them into myself and mix them around. And they spill back out across the page, across the screen, or dribbling across the air currents to reach inviting ears.
You don't know what I'm capable of. I'm not really sure myself. But let's find out. I'll show you as I go. Deal? Deal. I'm off.