try not to think about the rain
Jul. 19th, 2012 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intaglioWe're going to start blogging again, she said desultorily.
I just give up, today.
I spent all night with that writing assignment, really gave it the attention it deserves. That felt good, once I let it; the mechanical reassurance of doing a document properly and not having to worry whether the tone is right, whether it's good enough, whether there's room, whether I haven't written my partner into a corner and whether I'm still funny or if this is actually just sad.
I think I'm just going to retreat into regular writing for a while. The collaborative element is great fun, but sometimes I just don't even want to have fun, and just want to change the words around and around and around--just to hear the noises they make. Prosody has always been the single most important Thing, the great and holy Thing that drives writing, for me, at all.
That's why I can't stop. Prosody.
I'm coming at a point, sideways and in circles, and it was that I got a certain satisfaction out of doing the wiki review of the textbook chapter, but it still was a tall order--to get all that bullshit into 750 words exactly. Moreso because it's an engagement with Man Confronting Tanks, and that image is one of a few that are enormously important to me personally.
I've got a sudden and spontaneous craving for bourbon, for the slick, sweet, rotten way it burns, on the rocks. I don't even want the alcohol--I want the actual taste. There's a difference, but that's genetic and complex and god, I don't feel like it right now.
It was a fun assignment, it was satisfying in the extreme, but it was hard. A long climb, uphill and down, lungs thin with not enough air and too much water, tongue leaden with too many words. Worn out. Too tired to do any of the things I wanted to do; I punched through and did the cleaning that was still waiting for me and collapsed into bed.
The best five minutes of every day are when I scoop my fluffy bitsygirl into the bed and she curls into the slope of my spine and starts to snore. That's how I know it's okay; I can sleep.
I woke in stages, because everyone else was already awake, and I just don't even want to go over the details, but I won't be getting that morning alone that I was after.
I hate having my office shoehorned into this room, but there's nothing to be done about it.
I'm just going to stop now.
I just give up, today.
I spent all night with that writing assignment, really gave it the attention it deserves. That felt good, once I let it; the mechanical reassurance of doing a document properly and not having to worry whether the tone is right, whether it's good enough, whether there's room, whether I haven't written my partner into a corner and whether I'm still funny or if this is actually just sad.
I think I'm just going to retreat into regular writing for a while. The collaborative element is great fun, but sometimes I just don't even want to have fun, and just want to change the words around and around and around--just to hear the noises they make. Prosody has always been the single most important Thing, the great and holy Thing that drives writing, for me, at all.
That's why I can't stop. Prosody.
I'm coming at a point, sideways and in circles, and it was that I got a certain satisfaction out of doing the wiki review of the textbook chapter, but it still was a tall order--to get all that bullshit into 750 words exactly. Moreso because it's an engagement with Man Confronting Tanks, and that image is one of a few that are enormously important to me personally.
I've got a sudden and spontaneous craving for bourbon, for the slick, sweet, rotten way it burns, on the rocks. I don't even want the alcohol--I want the actual taste. There's a difference, but that's genetic and complex and god, I don't feel like it right now.
It was a fun assignment, it was satisfying in the extreme, but it was hard. A long climb, uphill and down, lungs thin with not enough air and too much water, tongue leaden with too many words. Worn out. Too tired to do any of the things I wanted to do; I punched through and did the cleaning that was still waiting for me and collapsed into bed.
The best five minutes of every day are when I scoop my fluffy bitsygirl into the bed and she curls into the slope of my spine and starts to snore. That's how I know it's okay; I can sleep.
I woke in stages, because everyone else was already awake, and I just don't even want to go over the details, but I won't be getting that morning alone that I was after.
I hate having my office shoehorned into this room, but there's nothing to be done about it.
I'm just going to stop now.
