Meloncholia. This typically follows depression for me. Someday I’ll write a novel explaining where most of my meloncholia comes from. I have several versions of the first chapter. There’s nothing supernatural in it. Some of the themes are explored in Amara’s Prayer, but all mixed up in mythology and the supernatural elements of that story.

Or maybe I’ll never write the other book. People might recognize themselves. That might scare some of them. Not in the good way a story should, either.

Yeah, I’m feeling a little messed up today. Ain’t writers supposed to be that way most of the time? Some of it’s still a holdover from the van/money/job situation. Only the van issue is resolved. The new one sits in the driveway now, staring at me through the window, whispering about the first payment, mocking my almost-jobless ass. The dealership wouldn’t even take the old van as a trade. We’re going to donate it to charity for a tax deduction, I guess.

I’m having to reach way back on my desk to type. About 200 pages of the galley for Shara lays between me and my keyboard. Rather than read it, I reach over it to procrastinate and whine on my blog. I love my werewolves, but I’m tired of reading and editing this story. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve read it and edited it, but it goes back to when I was using WordPerfect 5.1 on a 486DX computer, if that tells you anything.

And I know I said I’d put aside The Puppet King and work on Ulrik next, but … that’s not what I’m wanting to work on at the moment. There’s this other book, called The Fetch, that has been calling out to me since Horrorfind. I got new ideas for this book that currently exists as an extremely rough draft. The book suddenly has a new meaning for me and I’d love to dive into and explore what I can do with it.

Writing is self-therapy, you know. All those things you wanted to do in life — and things you didn’t know you wanted to do until it was too late — you can do them in fiction. People fuck you over in life? They’ll pay for it on your pages.

So much I want to do right now, but it seems my life is permanently on hold, waiting … waiting. How bad is it? I’ve actually been thinking about writing poetry today. You know, that dark, depressing crap kind that high school Goths write in their math textbooks. Fortunately, I lack the motivation for that, too.

The sun’s setting here. Another day gone. One more tasteless jelly bean out of the jar of life.

Aren’t you glad you’re not actually living with me?

0 responses to “Monday”

    • Re: Dude!
      … and now they wanna steal the only original line I’ve had all year.
      For you, Sheri, of course! Why haven’t I seen any new baby pictures for a while?

  1. Well, congrats on the new car. All of you use it in good health.
    Reading how down you feel is making me realize how down I am as well. Funny, when I was working I wished I was home. Now that I’m home I wish I was working. What’s that saying be careful what you wish for…
    I’m going to really hate myself for this in the morning, but…if you’re not feeling Ulrik right now, let it wait. Your heart won’t be in it. If the new story “The Fetch” is dying to get out, go for it. It may lighten your mood.
    You promised me some stories boy. Well, I’m baacck and I’ll be waiting. It’s good therapy too. Ha,ha.

    • What are friends for if not to drag each other down in the emotional mud of life? Huh?
      Wait on Ulrik? Write The Fetch. You know, some authors manage to work on multiple projects. We’ll see. Shara must be finished first.
      Stories. Yeah. ๐Ÿ˜‰

      • Mud wrestling? Well, what else are friends for? ๐Ÿ™‚
        You know, some authors manage to work on multiple projects.
        Ouch! Do I see fangs showing? *wink*
        Hey, multi tasking sounds fine to me. More than fine. Do you know how hard it was for me to say to wait on Ulrik? I look forward to Ulrik so much I can almost taste it.

  2. I Stand
    I was never a goth, but I’ve written some gods awful poetry…
    I stand, bleary eyed, looking towards tomorrow. In search of green grass meadows and bright blue skies.
    I stand and the sun calls to me in whispered tones and warm caresses while I, numb to this life, stand never blinking at it’s radiant glow from across the stone still waters edge.
    I stand, staring blankly- never feeling anything but empty. Facing this sacred edge of nothing that should amount to something, but missing the point completely.
    I stand, not hoping, not wishing, not even yearning for the understanding of feeling- as life goes and I grow jaded inside.
    I stand, hollow hearted- the stillness of the forest pressing snugly to my back attempting to consume what little is left of my soul.
    I stand, as I have stood since the dawn of time, patiently waiting for the feeling of being alive.

    • Re: I Stand
      Damn, Nikki. That’s actually pretty good. Now I’m really glad I didn’t post any of the (poetic) crap that was running around in my head yesterday.

      • Re: I Stand
        Bah – poetry is what it is and should always be taken at face value. All poetry is good in its own way. Poetry is something that is impossible to write away from yourself. Unlike a story, there’s nothing to hide behind.
        You should give it a go – it’ll make ya feel better. Kinda like a mental vomit.

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