Let's Try That Again, Hold the Angst
So yes. I am mostly writing this in an effort to put something at the top of the blog that is not positively oozing angst as if from a giant, infected wound.
I went to the doctor, and, as far as both of us can tell, I'm not dying. Not predictably soon, anyway. Of course I'm dying, we're all dying. (In case you were wondering, that last sentence was not an angst-lapse, just a simple fact that I actually find rather comforting sometimes.)
In other news.
I saw Atonement this week and was quite satisfied. They did a pretty good job of converting my (currently) favorite book to the screen.
I bought the Atonement soundtrack, which is great, and the new Sia album, which is AMAZING.
I am trying to psych myself up to write something. Which appears to be working, because hey, you're reading this, aren't you? I intend to try to pick up my NaNoWriMo novel from '06 again. Once again, the main thing I have to get over in order to do this is to get over the fear of writing something bad. Only when I've had writer's block for this long do I actually consider the prospect of writing something bad *better* than the state of not writing anything at all. I need to accept that anything I write will be bad and there is nothing I can do about that; not right now, anyway. I read today that Proust almost intimidated Virginia Woolf out of writing anything ever again, and that was *before* she wrote Mrs. Dalloway. The book in which I read this surmised that reading a perfect book (or, what the reader considers a perfect book) actually discourages one to write, because a) it's intimidating to the point of being completely discouraging and b) one of the reasons writers write (supposedly) is because they have not yet found a book they are completely satisfied with (this is actually the reason I started to write, when I was about 7). Thus, my new excuse, as of this afternoon, for not having written anything in over a year, is that I have been shocked into writer's block by Atonement, which is everything I think a book should be. You would think that with the imagination I have for excuses, I would be able to come up with a plot, but, alas.
I started to scrapbook my time abroad today. I've made 5 pages and so far I've gotten up to Day 3 of my journey. I foresee many more trips to Hobby Lobby in my future.
Also, I'm kind of tired of the cold weather because it forces me to wear an inconvenient amount of clothes. Scarf and sweater and blazer get all crowded 'round my neck and it makes me cranky.
But I promised you and angst-free post so YAY! Life is wonderful! I live in America! Hurrah!
I went to the doctor, and, as far as both of us can tell, I'm not dying. Not predictably soon, anyway. Of course I'm dying, we're all dying. (In case you were wondering, that last sentence was not an angst-lapse, just a simple fact that I actually find rather comforting sometimes.)
In other news.
I saw Atonement this week and was quite satisfied. They did a pretty good job of converting my (currently) favorite book to the screen.
I bought the Atonement soundtrack, which is great, and the new Sia album, which is AMAZING.
I am trying to psych myself up to write something. Which appears to be working, because hey, you're reading this, aren't you? I intend to try to pick up my NaNoWriMo novel from '06 again. Once again, the main thing I have to get over in order to do this is to get over the fear of writing something bad. Only when I've had writer's block for this long do I actually consider the prospect of writing something bad *better* than the state of not writing anything at all. I need to accept that anything I write will be bad and there is nothing I can do about that; not right now, anyway. I read today that Proust almost intimidated Virginia Woolf out of writing anything ever again, and that was *before* she wrote Mrs. Dalloway. The book in which I read this surmised that reading a perfect book (or, what the reader considers a perfect book) actually discourages one to write, because a) it's intimidating to the point of being completely discouraging and b) one of the reasons writers write (supposedly) is because they have not yet found a book they are completely satisfied with (this is actually the reason I started to write, when I was about 7). Thus, my new excuse, as of this afternoon, for not having written anything in over a year, is that I have been shocked into writer's block by Atonement, which is everything I think a book should be. You would think that with the imagination I have for excuses, I would be able to come up with a plot, but, alas.
I started to scrapbook my time abroad today. I've made 5 pages and so far I've gotten up to Day 3 of my journey. I foresee many more trips to Hobby Lobby in my future.
Also, I'm kind of tired of the cold weather because it forces me to wear an inconvenient amount of clothes. Scarf and sweater and blazer get all crowded 'round my neck and it makes me cranky.
But I promised you and angst-free post so YAY! Life is wonderful! I live in America! Hurrah!
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