![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Red Bloat manifested itself with a vengeance the day before yesterday. On the one hand, I'm glad it's here because that means it will soon be over, but on the other, I hate being sluggish, bloated, and logy. I hate smelling like a slaughterhouse in high summer dusted with my grandmother's lilac powder. I hate the hot flashes and fatigue. I'm not eager for menopause; I like my sex drive, like the fact that the mere sight of a hot guy can turn me into a damp pile of idiot want. But I will be so glad to see the back end of the cramps and mood swings and fatigue.
Despite the latter, I did manage five hundred words of fic last night. I also remembered my undying love for modern writing technology. Stephen King might be entirely right when he calls a fountain pen the world's best word processor, but were I to use one, my creative output would be reduced to a paragraph per day and would resemble the illiterate scrawlings of a lunatic. I had to make numerous edits and excisions last night. Some were significant, while others were a matter of changing punctuation or correcting a typo, but if this were still the age of the typewriter, all of them would have meant the loss and repetition of an entire page. If this had been 1990, for instance, at the end of the night's work, I would have been surrounded by an untidy drift of incomplete or ruined pages, and my progress would have been negligible. But thanks to this modern age, everything was corrected with a few keystrokes in a matter of minutes, and no innocent paper had to live an unfulfilled life as the sheet marred by a single line of text, cut down by an errant finger or a mid-stream change of mind. Sometimes, progress can be terrible, but sometimes, it can be a very fine thing, indeed.
( Grave Encounters--SPOILERS )
Despite the latter, I did manage five hundred words of fic last night. I also remembered my undying love for modern writing technology. Stephen King might be entirely right when he calls a fountain pen the world's best word processor, but were I to use one, my creative output would be reduced to a paragraph per day and would resemble the illiterate scrawlings of a lunatic. I had to make numerous edits and excisions last night. Some were significant, while others were a matter of changing punctuation or correcting a typo, but if this were still the age of the typewriter, all of them would have meant the loss and repetition of an entire page. If this had been 1990, for instance, at the end of the night's work, I would have been surrounded by an untidy drift of incomplete or ruined pages, and my progress would have been negligible. But thanks to this modern age, everything was corrected with a few keystrokes in a matter of minutes, and no innocent paper had to live an unfulfilled life as the sheet marred by a single line of text, cut down by an errant finger or a mid-stream change of mind. Sometimes, progress can be terrible, but sometimes, it can be a very fine thing, indeed.
( Grave Encounters--SPOILERS )
Tags:
