.self-absorbed half muse bastard; poetprince.

I followed ALL of your advices in the opposite order they were received. This was not an intentional course of action, but more I just kept all of what you said in mind, and then as it became relevant to my actual mental situations, applied them.

Falconite + Eatflipper suggested that I do something else for a while. I didn't look for anything else, and I couldn't think of anything else for myself. Something else forced itself on me, in the form of my magazine, and I blogged a bit. Quite extensively. I began to branch out and try writing as a journalist for a bit, rather than a fiction wordsmith. It is a bit easier to look out than stay inside. I have read myself up and into the 1970s. I'm only 30 years behind at the moment, and I find that people who wrote 39 years ago seemed to have a good idea of what would shock us today.

Kitsunenomiko + Utuku suggested that I write, just pound out ideas as much as possible, something being better than nothing. And that's what I ended up doing with the blog. I had enough emotional detachment to free write and accept whatever ideas I had so long as I could find some longwinded way to tie them back to academia/the local scene/Arizona/writers. It doesn't take me a lot of time to write a lot of words. The more you write words, the easier it is to think of the good ones and important ones that need to be said.

Altogether, I managed to learn a lot in trying something new.

It's with that in mind that I endeavor to now write 10,000 fiction words a week.

It's not all in one shot, or all in many shorts, it's just however I can manage to use that word count.

It doesn't take a lot out of me to write 500 words, at most it might be 45 minutes to an hour, and I have a lot of those. My task is to find tasks to keep me from worrying about that other task. If I rotate those around frequently enough, I won't get unhappy. Or I'll be too busy to think about being unhappy. Or maybe I'll just be unhappy and busy.

Er. Let's ignore that tangent. Anyone wanna join me?

I've stopped writing. It's up and dry... I've only written four entries in my regular LJ in the last two months.

I don't know what to do.

Editor, what should I do? Friends, what should I do? Non-friends, please give positive advice ("Choke on a dick and die" is not acceptable, for example).

St. Orpheus came back for me.

I'm still around, my dear.

Lullaby

Lay Your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm:
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy,

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost.
All the dreaded cards foretell.
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought.
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find our mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
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This goes here, because over there is love month. Not that this isn't full of love, but that is openly stated love. Maybe this is also, but I do not think passive-aggression belongs in the same room as so much affection.

And furthermore, this is fifteen statements I cannot address directly -- in reference to those who have had a role in the kind of creation that goes on here. I am writing fictions right now, this is not one of them... my apologies to those in anticipation.

1. I still love you.
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This visual celibacy is turning me adolescent, in that period just before you figure out how to see any contortion of muscles and skin, configurations of face and hair and situation that you might desire.  That exciting mystery when any hint of flesh induces shivers and half understood imaginings.  This attempt at Freudian sublimation is more perverse than the indulgence would have been.  I am going places in my mind that I otherwise had set up boundaries against. 

Like all attempts at discipline, I understand this will only seem worse before it gets better. 

Even though, already, it is pretty bad.

AUGH.  I cannot believe I wrote that kind of thing.  There are some places, some fandoms that I just don't do weird things to, think improper things of.  There are some stories that I really do think are good enough and that I don't think need any more sauce.  I thought that would be one of them... being a story that manages to have both my imaginary future job title in it and my patron saint, but no.  Oh no, I've gone and sullied it now.  Four hundred thirty two words at this point, and that's only a fifth of what I've plotted up.

And you know, it's not that I dislike her in the least, I just never put much contemplation into her.  Then suddenly I have not just plot bunnies, but plot tribbles all about me. 

Forgive me! Oh, forgive me these sins...

I don't know if I'll even have the courage to post this publicly.

Oh well, I know I've spattered the web with worse, so I'm just going to marvel at how long this one horrible webhost has managed to keep up my defunct fanshrine and horrid epic Mary-Sue fic quietly.  Geez, it's been nearly a decade...  Who knows how long this fortress will stand.

Have I given away my shameful secret yet?

You have no idea how much it hurts to have your faith broken. You are so dreadful for smothering out that flame that burned in me. Now I am lost, without direction, without a creed or a god or church. I haven't much of a concept of what I believe in these days. I do not know if there is such a thing as universal love. I do not know if my prayers are heard. "Why have you forsaken me?" But you know, nothing has changed but the lenses through which I view that realm.

Nonetheless, despite this struggle, I would identify myself as aspiring to inhabit the realm of a poet-priest along with the position of half-bastard poet-prince... do they allow bastards in "the clergy", anyway?

Things I believe in: vague reincarnation, lack of innate worth (worth is a human construct), absence of absolutism... eh, here's a meme.


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This goes here, in this journal and not the other for some reason. I'm not sure why, but it does. I guess I'm at a loss as how to relate to the world, and how I relate to the world determines my output, maybe. It seems to among many others, at least.

Reading works by good writers reminds me that I too could be a good writer if I could just focus myself and write. 

Reading guides on good writers makes my eyes turn the size of saucers and makes me realize how much more I could improve if I put even more thought into it.  So I read...

And I read... and I think...

And I read, until I'm completely overwhelmed and out of the mood for writing altogether, but filled with sweet juicy knowledge on how I could be writing.  Oh, my love.  I could say that, "my love" instead of "my god", couldn't I, because I believe much more certainly in one than the other...  But isn't that a story for another day? 

It is a pity that in this academic environment that good writing and good writing guides are placed so inconveniently together. 

Did all those words mean nothing to you, then?

Because they meant the world to me.