This post was going to be called 'Physical vs Digital Pt. 2', where I was going to explain about my sister Aime who loves watching the Harry Potter movies and has a better experience than those who nit-pick because they've read the books...
...until I realised, not only could I give less of a shit, but also that the subjects I'm choosing for my blog posts are becoming pitifully sad. It would be okay if I at least posted some fiction, but I've lost the courage to post any of my work even on here. I'm starting to sound like someone who needs to get a life.
Which IS true, I suppose. I don't really go out anymore. A lot of things seem pointless to me now. Mama gets sad sometimes because I don't sit down and watch a movie with her anymore or spend time with the family. It was only when she said it that I realised I don't make an effort; I just find everything so fcking tedious.
I spoke to my other sister Azure, who, though clever word-smithery, made me realise that I'm dreading going to University, the only thing that provided even the opportunity of looking forward to something. I feel like sitting on my arse and bursting into tears.
I've got just about enough money to get to work next week. Frustration is not even the word. I couldn't go to a much eagerly awaited book signing, and I won't be able to go to the London Film And Comic Con either. Pissed is not even the word. I've got a waiting list of things I wanted to buy on eBay from months ago, and a so-called 'business' that hasn't even taken off the ground get. Infuriated is not even the WORD.
A couple of days ago, I sat down and wrote a little of Venus versus Mars, then opened The Urban Piper at Chapter 8-ish. I was completely awed at myself. I can assuredly say right now that The Urban Piper has got to be the best thing I have ever written, despite that the storyline doesn't always make sense, and the scenes aren't always relevant. Suddenly I felt a little inspired and really eager to write more, but to get back into the style I was writing in then, I had to read Chapter Seven. That left me wanting more, so I made to open Chapter Six when I realised how dumb I was being, reading the damn thing backwards. I started from the beginning, and what I found made me sad at my own memories, proud of my own small success with the story, and feeling a mixture of elation and emptyness.
The worst part is, I know that I can do it. Somewhere in me, I have the ability, the courage and the endurance to write a book and finish it. So why is it that whenever I'm looking at this screen, I get a headache? Reading The Urban Piper after so long let me see some crucial mistakes I was making. Finally I could fill some holes. That should've made me feel like I was getting somewhere, but it only made me feel tired.
Right, my head hurts. I'm going to drown or suffocate my sorrows in something; supanoodles, a book, a knife, etc. (let's start with supanoodles.)
I Am The Alter-Ego Writer, But Who Am I? (any ideas?)
S xx
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