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One thousand and and nine words today.
Every time I sit down to write, I'm sure that this time, I won't be able to do it, and every time, something always gets written. It might be terrible or sloppy or less than I wanted, but it's something, and that's reassuring. The terrible stuff gets chucked, the sloppy stuff gets spruced up, and the rest eventually becomes part of a story. Every time one story gets finished, another stirs in the back of my mind, and soon, I'm haring after it, an exuberant pup after a rabbit.
I don't talk about writing much these days, but I've noticed themes and patterns in my work. Apparently, my basement dwellers kink on epic romance, undying, unwavering love in the face of adversity, and heaps of angst and regret. Throw in some anguished pining and the secret certainty that this incredible love with be snatched away by cruel fate, and oh, buddy, I'm there. I've tried writing frothy fluff, but the shadows always creep in. Maybe part of that stems from writing disabled characters; it's hard to be completely secure in yourself when you have to worry about pooping your pants for want of an accessible toilet. So even the pluckiest, smartest wheelchair-wielding woman is going to have moments of weakness and doubt and shame and self-pity. It's a hard but true byproduct of the world they live in and the bodies they inhabit.
I can't change me, and I can't change them, so at least I can make sure they get a good lay out of the deal.
Every time I sit down to write, I'm sure that this time, I won't be able to do it, and every time, something always gets written. It might be terrible or sloppy or less than I wanted, but it's something, and that's reassuring. The terrible stuff gets chucked, the sloppy stuff gets spruced up, and the rest eventually becomes part of a story. Every time one story gets finished, another stirs in the back of my mind, and soon, I'm haring after it, an exuberant pup after a rabbit.
I don't talk about writing much these days, but I've noticed themes and patterns in my work. Apparently, my basement dwellers kink on epic romance, undying, unwavering love in the face of adversity, and heaps of angst and regret. Throw in some anguished pining and the secret certainty that this incredible love with be snatched away by cruel fate, and oh, buddy, I'm there. I've tried writing frothy fluff, but the shadows always creep in. Maybe part of that stems from writing disabled characters; it's hard to be completely secure in yourself when you have to worry about pooping your pants for want of an accessible toilet. So even the pluckiest, smartest wheelchair-wielding woman is going to have moments of weakness and doubt and shame and self-pity. It's a hard but true byproduct of the world they live in and the bodies they inhabit.
I can't change me, and I can't change them, so at least I can make sure they get a good lay out of the deal.