There's a going away party for someone I'm not tremendously fond of tonight. Dinner, some crappy place downtown, then some house. I'll probably bow out of all but dinner. I think, maybe, I'll write instead.
I've wondered recently if my journaling is tied to my writing. Before, when I was busting hump on my novel project, I would religiously post something in my livejournal. It's been a month and a half - give or take - since I quit, and I've noticed my desire to write is lessened. QUITE lessened, actually. Nights that used to produce 7-14 pages are now lucky to manage 5.
Could be a confluence of other events, as well. I also read Brin's Uplift Trilogy during this period, which really made me question my own abilities as a writer. (Hardly fair to compare me and him, considering, but impossible not to) Reading good/great novels makes me (a) improve styleistically and (b) despair of ever being so talented. Course, then I read The Big U (Stephenson's first novel), and it made me feel a *lot* better. Still, not much on the writing front.
Perhaps it's just some strangeness related to being so close to the end. Maybe I just don't want to go back and *edit* this motherfucker. Editing is going to be a pain, because I've come up with a whole heap ton of shit I need to add in, but I also will need to trim it down somewhat. 150-200k is entirely too long. Editing is also done sober, which isn't terribly rewarding. Still, I'd like to get this put to bed by the end of summer.
Things are strange otherwise. Sarah has been slowly moving her shit out, and the few times we run into each other are somewhat awkward, but I can't explain why. Some lack of closure, maybe, but I don't see how that could *possibly* be the case. Maybe just general weirdness, or me just picking up some random psychic noise. Could be anything, really.
I've wondered recently if my journaling is tied to my writing. Before, when I was busting hump on my novel project, I would religiously post something in my livejournal. It's been a month and a half - give or take - since I quit, and I've noticed my desire to write is lessened. QUITE lessened, actually. Nights that used to produce 7-14 pages are now lucky to manage 5.
Could be a confluence of other events, as well. I also read Brin's Uplift Trilogy during this period, which really made me question my own abilities as a writer. (Hardly fair to compare me and him, considering, but impossible not to) Reading good/great novels makes me (a) improve styleistically and (b) despair of ever being so talented. Course, then I read The Big U (Stephenson's first novel), and it made me feel a *lot* better. Still, not much on the writing front.
Perhaps it's just some strangeness related to being so close to the end. Maybe I just don't want to go back and *edit* this motherfucker. Editing is going to be a pain, because I've come up with a whole heap ton of shit I need to add in, but I also will need to trim it down somewhat. 150-200k is entirely too long. Editing is also done sober, which isn't terribly rewarding. Still, I'd like to get this put to bed by the end of summer.
Things are strange otherwise. Sarah has been slowly moving her shit out, and the few times we run into each other are somewhat awkward, but I can't explain why. Some lack of closure, maybe, but I don't see how that could *possibly* be the case. Maybe just general weirdness, or me just picking up some random psychic noise. Could be anything, really.