aka, today's hangover. and for once it's not from drinkin.
yesterday i finished the first draft of grace, the current book. i'm not sick of it yet, which is a good sign. apart from the sense of loss that goes with saying okay, that's enough, we know where we're at now, there's a weird feeling of achievement even though i'm only by my estimate about 1/8 of the way through the labour, and that eighth being the fun part... yes, i have difficulty letting myself finish things.
as for complaining about writing, i reckon it's lame. writers tend to envy other artists cause we think writing's difficult and 'real' art is playful - fuck that. words can be playful. words don't have to be difficult. that's elitism disguised as thinking. and also a denial that stringing a sentence together is art. which comes back to elitism - art is for retards anyway, right?
hey, some of my best friends are retards. mind you they're not averse to stringing together the odd sentence.
the thing i've been thinking about while stapling away for belladonna is that a) i miss travelling and b) this blog feels really futile without it. there is so much media about blogging and shit, from journos to folks talking about their sex lives to well, anyone with a
concept or a frame. loath as i am to contribute to this endless blather about the startling frights of technology, i feel i must enlarge. for me this particular data catchment began as a way to get out of writing group emails while travelling. laziness grew into a form and possibly a distinct voice. and the futility?
actually, the issue i'm having is not about the blog, but the life. specifically the lack of travelling. planes are looking romantic right now. shit, i guess i'm homesick for swagdom. i'm yearning to sleep outside. it's limbo until the road takes me back. fyi that should be sometime january, when these posts get less philosophical and more interesting.
sydney being my home town, it's a bit odd trying to distinguish life and adventure, so i won't bother telling you what i've been doing. suffice it involves a lot of swimming (i have discovered a distinct hardness in my arms which is either muscles or cancer) and frittering about in the sunshine, looking at art and generally being idle and happy. the plan for book is that i let it have a disco nap until after xmas/nye and return to the hard slog... but i am already fighting off the desire to edit/analyse/write the next one.
which brings me back to do, a deer. i am, in fact, quite proud of myself for yesterday's milestone. the self-discipline of working in my backyard/office was functional almost to the point where i felt like i had a job, though without the psychic trauma. congratulate me. grace will be.
yesterday i finished the first draft of grace, the current book. i'm not sick of it yet, which is a good sign. apart from the sense of loss that goes with saying okay, that's enough, we know where we're at now, there's a weird feeling of achievement even though i'm only by my estimate about 1/8 of the way through the labour, and that eighth being the fun part... yes, i have difficulty letting myself finish things.
as for complaining about writing, i reckon it's lame. writers tend to envy other artists cause we think writing's difficult and 'real' art is playful - fuck that. words can be playful. words don't have to be difficult. that's elitism disguised as thinking. and also a denial that stringing a sentence together is art. which comes back to elitism - art is for retards anyway, right?
hey, some of my best friends are retards. mind you they're not averse to stringing together the odd sentence.
the thing i've been thinking about while stapling away for belladonna is that a) i miss travelling and b) this blog feels really futile without it. there is so much media about blogging and shit, from journos to folks talking about their sex lives to well, anyone with a
concept or a frame. loath as i am to contribute to this endless blather about the startling frights of technology, i feel i must enlarge. for me this particular data catchment began as a way to get out of writing group emails while travelling. laziness grew into a form and possibly a distinct voice. and the futility?
actually, the issue i'm having is not about the blog, but the life. specifically the lack of travelling. planes are looking romantic right now. shit, i guess i'm homesick for swagdom. i'm yearning to sleep outside. it's limbo until the road takes me back. fyi that should be sometime january, when these posts get less philosophical and more interesting.
sydney being my home town, it's a bit odd trying to distinguish life and adventure, so i won't bother telling you what i've been doing. suffice it involves a lot of swimming (i have discovered a distinct hardness in my arms which is either muscles or cancer) and frittering about in the sunshine, looking at art and generally being idle and happy. the plan for book is that i let it have a disco nap until after xmas/nye and return to the hard slog... but i am already fighting off the desire to edit/analyse/write the next one.
which brings me back to do, a deer. i am, in fact, quite proud of myself for yesterday's milestone. the self-discipline of working in my backyard/office was functional almost to the point where i felt like i had a job, though without the psychic trauma. congratulate me. grace will be.
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