Yesterday’s predictions are already well on their way. I slept through alarm no.1 (and as I typed that sentence I realized that I can’t seem to find the cardinal number symbol on this keyboard – but no time to hunt, onwards, onwards, ever spiraling!) and so I’m unsure I’ve enough time to get these words done this morning.
It’s also my last caffeinated morning in a row. Tomorrow I shall make some decaf. And no during the day coffee anymore. Tea? Tea I guess. Water would be better. It’s not going to be pleasant or comfortable, but change never is, and being honest, I’m not feeling so pleasant or comfortable right now, so I reckon I need this change.
And whether you want to or not, you’re going to hear all about it right here as I’ll document every little niggle I experience and obsess over its potential to indicate something even more serious.
But off health and onto writing for a little while. (There’s a joke in that sentence with an audience of exactly one. Okay two if I include myself, and I do.)
I squeezed out a few more words of fiction and then felt needy as hell and insisted that G. validate me. After about twenty minutes of chatting I realized what was actually up with me – you see, I’m worried that I’m terrible at this. No worse. I worry that I’m writing in that way that I’ve judged others for (silently! I may be a horrible person, but I know how to adhere to the social contract!).
G. actually had an excellent description of the type of writing I was talking about when he said it was a bit like a Cargo Cult; the writer knows pretty much how it should look, how it should read and is trying really hard to emulate that but kind of coming across like an unanimated golem – a reasonable facsimile of a story, but missing the soul. I merely described it as “overwrought” where sentences are purposefully structured “interestingly” and why use one adjective when three will do.
The thing is that people who write in this way don’t realize that they’re doing it and so if I’m doing it why would I be the exception who notices it in themselves.
Why does it matter? If I’m having fun making the story and building the details of the world in my head throughout the gaps of my day, shouldn’t that have value in itself? You know, I think it does, but I also think I’d like to know, and I’d like to know early. Coz maybe I could fix that. Maybe I could learn to be better. The main purpose is to tell the story, but I figure my writing needs to get the hell out of the way of the story in order to do that effectively.
So I had questions around that, and things are pretty early for much analytic criticism at this point, but indicators are hopeful for my not being a complete embarassment to myself every time I touch a keyboard.
And no, I didn’t know. No, it’s not enough to be writing here each morning – I don’t even really consider this writing in the sense of telling a story. I’m just brain dumping here in order to function slightly more reasonably in the world as a friend and parent and partner. I don’t pay too much attention to the structure of my sentences, grammar or structure; it’s all a bit Athena and Zeus around here with things leaping fully formed from my head. For better or worse.
Time for a subject change, because I can just do that here.
I’m back to school today. It feels like I’m returning after a longer holiday than just the one week of midterm because of the pre-exams and TY students being away on work experience. I really liked teaching on a much reduced time-table. I really liked being on holidays. And I also feel like I’m returning a bit of a different person to the one who went away. I guess even just being recovered from that flu of hell has made a significant change.
I can already feel the osmotic guilt and stress creeping up through my system. Maybe I can breathe through that. Maybe this time it won’t consume me whole. Maybe I’ll remember the plan that I wrote out yesterday. Maybe the change to my evenings will be the silver bullet that will help me be the changed me I need to be.