Usually, before I begin to write, I stop. My hand freezes over the shift key, my left index finger poised over the left hand side of the keyboard. itching towards an 'I'. I smile. In the split second before my finger hits whatever key it does, a muddle of thoughts and sights and smells regarding my latest offering whiz through my head. Its like a stream of technicolour.
Will the gods truly punish me for writing? Am I really eight, stuck and tired and weepy and not really wanting to push monsters away anymore? Do I want a wicked sword? Do vegetables really grow beaks and become fearsome crane like creatures?
*dreams dreams dreams*
Why can't I be normal and dream of boys, and other such? Or maybe even cars? Or creation? Or paint...ooh! paintball. Now that would be a nice dream. Why doesn't inspiration visit me through dreams? Why is it weird stuff?
*vegetable cranes - seriously, i need help right?*
I re-read rick riordan today. (p.s. let me tell you, in the last two years, I have done a who-o-ole lot of reading. ) If you ever get to the part about river styx, you'll understand.
So whats up.
Will the gods truly punish me for writing? Am I really eight, stuck and tired and weepy and not really wanting to push monsters away anymore? Do I want a wicked sword? Do vegetables really grow beaks and become fearsome crane like creatures?
*dreams dreams dreams*
Why can't I be normal and dream of boys, and other such? Or maybe even cars? Or creation? Or paint...ooh! paintball. Now that would be a nice dream. Why doesn't inspiration visit me through dreams? Why is it weird stuff?
*vegetable cranes - seriously, i need help right?*
I re-read rick riordan today. (p.s. let me tell you, in the last two years, I have done a who-o-ole lot of reading. ) If you ever get to the part about river styx, you'll understand.
So whats up.
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