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Reaching out...
Jun. 2nd, 2003 02:49 pmI have been cocooning of late. It was in part because I went away for a week, which has me so buried in work when I return that it's hard not to isolate myself away. It was also because I had some meds issues during my vacation and after it as well, but I can't miss work right now -- it's the end of school, so we're straight out, right now -- so I've been going home and passing out. Take this past weekend. I went home Friday afternoon. I then slept. And slept. And slept. And woke up briefly. And then slept some more. And then I slept. And then I woke up for about an hour, and tried to focus on things, only every focus point was another sleep point. And then it was 6:30 am on Sunday, and I was finally awake.
Notice, the implication is I lost all of Saturday. This is effectively correct.
Sunday, I got up at that 6:30 am and went out into the sunlight. There wasn't any, mind. It was pouring rain, instead. I crawled out, felt the rain on me, climbed into my car, and drove to have breakfast. And I wrote. And then I went down to Cafe on the Corner in Dover.
And I wrote. And wrote.
The writer's block hurt me, deeply. It had me depressed, and in pain. To put out five thousand words no one has ever shuffled into that particular order before... there is nothing like it. The high is unique, and wonderful, and potent. It is beyond anything I can describe. In the end, I finished the next chapter of Theftworld. It included my first non-sucky hard SF starship combat scene. Which is to say it featured men and women speaking tensely inside a room with low ceilings, while they watched tactical displays and waited for sensor confirmations. I put that chapter up on my writing page. If you can read this and are curious, shoot me e-mail and I'll hook you up.
I am a writer. I write.
Of course, this morning I discover that while I was cocooned and barely thinking, two different people called me wondering where the Hell I was. One of whom was going to hold Sunday open if I wanted to do anything. I didn't think to check my voicemail before then. So I suck. No one claims I don't suck.
But at least I sucked five thousand WORDS WORTH! HAH!
Notice, the implication is I lost all of Saturday. This is effectively correct.
Sunday, I got up at that 6:30 am and went out into the sunlight. There wasn't any, mind. It was pouring rain, instead. I crawled out, felt the rain on me, climbed into my car, and drove to have breakfast. And I wrote. And then I went down to Cafe on the Corner in Dover.
And I wrote. And wrote.
The writer's block hurt me, deeply. It had me depressed, and in pain. To put out five thousand words no one has ever shuffled into that particular order before... there is nothing like it. The high is unique, and wonderful, and potent. It is beyond anything I can describe. In the end, I finished the next chapter of Theftworld. It included my first non-sucky hard SF starship combat scene. Which is to say it featured men and women speaking tensely inside a room with low ceilings, while they watched tactical displays and waited for sensor confirmations. I put that chapter up on my writing page. If you can read this and are curious, shoot me e-mail and I'll hook you up.
I am a writer. I write.
Of course, this morning I discover that while I was cocooned and barely thinking, two different people called me wondering where the Hell I was. One of whom was going to hold Sunday open if I wanted to do anything. I didn't think to check my voicemail before then. So I suck. No one claims I don't suck.
But at least I sucked five thousand WORDS WORTH! HAH!
