I tried something a little different this morning. Rather than coming straight on here and writing away all the various dancing thoughts in my brain, I opened up a document and typed out 300 words of fiction. I stopped there because it felt overwrought and uncomfortable and I hate every letter of it.
I don’t usually feel like that about stuff I make, at least not straight away, but maybe most creative writing I’ve attempted has been when I was drunk. I mean as an adult obviously. Or in some kind of altered brain-chemistry place.
Back in 2002 I took to writing a semi-autobiographical story of a troubled girl with brain weasels, mild hallucinations and a bit of a problem with reality. I called it “How The Aliens Stole Monday” and was written in first person present detailing a pretty messed up girl who spends a single day spiralling further and further away from reality. It was pretty good therapy for me at that particular time in my life; I was just out of hospital after my second suicide attempt, not really coping with anyone or anything and generally flailing my way through my days.
I quite liked what I wrote at the time too. I like the voice I was using, it all felt “right”. What I just wrote this morning felt anything but that. I think I was trying out a conceit that just isn’t working for me in practice.
I have this idea of a story that’s kind of told from the sidelines, where the main character in the book isn’t the main character of the events, so they only see parts of the story. It’s the kind of thing I’ve seen done in TV episodes and I’ve enjoyed it there, but I suspect that only works because the viewer has the advantage of already knowing the backstory so well that it’s kind of enjoyable to get another view into it.
I suspect I’ll abandon that document of three hundred words, but not throw it in the bin. I’m not uninterested in writing some more fiction for fun in the future, but for now I’m done again.
I can’t believe it’s two weeks into this year and I haven’t drawn a single picture, and I’ve no definite plans to change that just yet. Like, I have vague plans of “yeah sure I’ll be drawing on X, Y and Z different projects” but no motivation to make any moves on those fronts just yet.
I might try out some early morning drawing for a week in place of writing at some point. It feels like it would be much more likely to be “I can’t”ed than the writing I do here. Having to excavate enough clear flat space to draw. Having to dig out the correct utensils. Desiring quiet and inspiration. They’re all fake excuses, but they’re there and in need of overcoming all the same.
But for now, I want to take some reading and consuming time.