Saturday Apr 23, 2005

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The sun is shining, the trees are green, the neighborhood kids are outside beating each other vigorously with lacrosse sticks, and I have a bucket of buttermilk fried chicken and some limeade.

Ah, springtime.

Now I'm going to study the books I got from the library on Norse mythology and continue making notes. My brain is boiling on this idea I have, and I can't do anything but write it. It feels so good to be passionate about a new idea again. This is exactly the reason why I write, this feeling right now; being really excited about a new project. It just permeates my life and makes my limbs tingle. It gives me drive. I think this might be what living is really all about. It also feels really good to know that I'm not going to end up being a one-book pony.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have some celebratory fried chicken to attend to.

Edited to add: This is some damn fine chicken. I'm beginning to think that celebratory fried chicken might be another thing that living is really all about.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
shad:
I'm at that point in writing where the need to write is so bad, so hungry, that I can't write enough. I'm breaking myself, I spend so much time scribbling stuff down, editing, reading, re-reading. I write so much it hurts. It's terrible. It's like being addicted to something, but no matter how much you do it just makes the craving worse.

Saturday in the mail I got a form reject from my agent-of-choice. Also got my latest copy of fantasy&science fiction, which included stories by two authors I despise, whose writing is pap. Hugo-nominated pap. Blech.
shad:
I didn't really feel it, didn't feel sick with it, until I was about your age. Up until then I couldn't, I don't know. Get my shit together. Or something.

Great. Now I feel old. Great.

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