phoenix from the ashes

I hate to say it but this morning I was obsessed with dying the death of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a man whose writing I greatly admire, and yet a man I have sympathy for because of his van-Gogh-like death. You know, the hurting, sick alcoholic, struggling to turn out typewrit page after typewrit page; alone after dozens of failed relationships and many affairs... yes, this morning I woke up and it felt like someone had prophesied my life to be like that. It was a weird, not very comfortable feeling.

However hard my life is right now, I feel as though I am rising up through it all. I'm writing like mad, accomplishing dozens and dozens of things in a day, scraping away at papers that fly about me; I am doing more work and chores than ever, and drinking more espresso than ever. I have started to take Vitamin B halfway throughout the day, just so I can get through without falling asleep.

Then at 10 o'clock PM, I have an espresso in my bedroom, so I can stay up till midnight and write. Oh, writing. What I would do to write. It is my life, it is the very cord that connects me to my sanity. Or perhaps insanity, depending on your viewpoint. It opens me up. I must admit though, that true writing is very painful, oh damn it is. It hurts like hell. But if it does not hurt, there is no truth in it, there is no meaning and no self in it... it is all fluff, nothing worth keeping, nothing worth publishing. You might as well have been doing cleaning or such.

Oh tut! I'm starting to sound like Brenda Ueland. (Though that may not be such a very bad thing.)

Sore Throat

Yep, I have one. I went to bed with a mild scratch in my throat and woke up with a full-blown earache and throat ache. Now, I would be okay with this except for the fact that starting on Monday is my Singer's Performance Week.

And I CAN'T SING!

I can't even do a simple exercise like "zi-a-zi-a-zi" without squeaking on the middle notes. There's no way I'm going to be able to reach a G note above pasaggio now. God, this is where you come in. Because there's no way I can sing like this. >.<

Other than that, I have kept myself busy with writing like never before. Is this the work of Prozac? I hate to give the credit to a drug but I think it may be true. Ever since I was put on Prozac I have had an incredible urge to work on the novel that I've never written.

Also I've been planning on getting my hair cut short, you know since I've had trichotillomania. (I hate how weird that word looks, lol.) Even if I have to wear a hat for awhile because I don't like the cut, it would be very freeing. Then I'd let it grow out long again. Anyway, it would be fun to mess with having a "bob" for awhile, don't you think? Hahaha.

And my sister Leanne says that once I get my hair cut short we're going to play with hair colors. I want to try a dark, rich auburn. Or even a blonde kinda like yours, Earwen. What do you think?

Story planning!

Am currently filling out a single-page Story Planner, complete with little boxes for characters and events and such. I learned never to get too detailed in planning. You can find the page here, if you are interested.

It's bothersome filling these things out, but at least it's easier than actually writing it. I'm horrible at the writing part, which makes it difficult to be a writer. I tend on the perfectionist side, so I write really slowly and have to have everything just right before going on. >.<