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10/7/03 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minervasoloI was given a book on creative writing for my birthday, a fit and nice guy in my It class asked if I'd rwitten any more books recently (how come it's taken me til now to notice he's that fit, when I've been practically sititng next to him all year?) nd various other tihings left me wodinerg as I sat ouside colelge today: why the hell aren't I writing? Right now? Why am I not putting pen to paper at this very moment?
^_^ Once that kind of motivation kicks in, it'll be around for at least a week, usually a lot longer. Always dies eventually, that's why all my novels, started at times like this, are unfinished, but I've been writing out plans for a lot of short stories recently, so I have something to do as well.
This creative writingbook suggests a whole bunch of writing exercises, so expect some really random stuff to turn up here regularly. Such as today. Just out of curiousity, can any guess what I was actually listening to?
echoes of words. piece and part of a language thought in and spoken, but scattered fragments with no meanings in themselves, sounding more like staccato music or morse code. Maybe one syllable in three heard, never enough to distinguish so much as a single word, and all so distorted and muffled that even when the tinny speaker is closer and i can hear it all I can't make out what the person is saying.
It's not important to me, they're speaking to someone behind me, but I can't help but hear. Staccato rattlings, tap-tapping and spit-spatting from such a small thing, a language I have heard every day of my life and at this moment, is as foreign to me Swahili. But it's oddly pleasent to listen to, like the drum beat behind a popular soung, instrumentles, or the sound of rain on the window at night, to footsteps in the room above. 'you are not alone' these tappings say 'you are not the only one'.
I know this, and I also know he's talking about building works.
I have to get out of this 'punchline' habit. Not everything needs a punchline, and hafl the time I end up spattering a piece with six or seven almost-punchlines, not good enough to end on but a place where I could have stopped. Grr.
Mum and Harry have gone out to dinner. It's the ninth anniversary of the day they met.
If you're wondering (okay, exercising a little vanity here, no on'es wondering, and a lot of people didn't read in hte first place, heck, it's not as though many people read this thing, which in itself is probably a blessing), I overheard a message on a Harry's mobile phone, possibly about a job. He was standing somewhere behind me, and when i first heard the noise i had no idea what I was listening to.
^_^ Once that kind of motivation kicks in, it'll be around for at least a week, usually a lot longer. Always dies eventually, that's why all my novels, started at times like this, are unfinished, but I've been writing out plans for a lot of short stories recently, so I have something to do as well.
This creative writingbook suggests a whole bunch of writing exercises, so expect some really random stuff to turn up here regularly. Such as today. Just out of curiousity, can any guess what I was actually listening to?
echoes of words. piece and part of a language thought in and spoken, but scattered fragments with no meanings in themselves, sounding more like staccato music or morse code. Maybe one syllable in three heard, never enough to distinguish so much as a single word, and all so distorted and muffled that even when the tinny speaker is closer and i can hear it all I can't make out what the person is saying.
It's not important to me, they're speaking to someone behind me, but I can't help but hear. Staccato rattlings, tap-tapping and spit-spatting from such a small thing, a language I have heard every day of my life and at this moment, is as foreign to me Swahili. But it's oddly pleasent to listen to, like the drum beat behind a popular soung, instrumentles, or the sound of rain on the window at night, to footsteps in the room above. 'you are not alone' these tappings say 'you are not the only one'.
I know this, and I also know he's talking about building works.
I have to get out of this 'punchline' habit. Not everything needs a punchline, and hafl the time I end up spattering a piece with six or seven almost-punchlines, not good enough to end on but a place where I could have stopped. Grr.
Mum and Harry have gone out to dinner. It's the ninth anniversary of the day they met.
If you're wondering (okay, exercising a little vanity here, no on'es wondering, and a lot of people didn't read in hte first place, heck, it's not as though many people read this thing, which in itself is probably a blessing), I overheard a message on a Harry's mobile phone, possibly about a job. He was standing somewhere behind me, and when i first heard the noise i had no idea what I was listening to.
