Here’s the thing: I don’t do silence. I don’t even do “indoor voices”. My preferred method of communication is loud, decisive. I like to laugh from deep in my belly, head thrown back and shoulders shaking- why should I deprive anyone of my hoarse cackle? And when I start talking…well, good luck shutting me up. Because it ain’t gonna happen.
So, guess what? I’m in the mood for a chat, and since my regular audience of stuffed animals is currently on holiday in the land of laundry, I guess you’ll have to do. And it just so happens that this prompt fits in perfectly with my mood.
See, I was writing, okay. I was procrastinating reading the stuff for my lab course tomorrow by working on my story (well, I call it a story because it sounds pretentious even inside my head to call it a book at this point….but actually, I’m not even done my first draft and it’s almost 200 pages. In size 10 Arial font. Single spaced. Because I’m a masochist who enjoys deceiving herself into believing she’s making no headway until like fifty years down the line. I’m exaggerating…it took more like 2 months. But it felt like Sleeping Beauty’s power nap, so go throw out your lecture on hyperbole), when suddenly, I realised that I’d been writing the same stupid fucking scene for two weeks!
To provide some context so you can fully feel my pain, the scene is a short little action sequence where my main character (MC) annoys his friends with his suicidal tendencies as swords are falling from the ceiling. Really random, I know, but trust me, it makes sense in the big picture. Or at least, I hope it does because otherwise, I’m going to have a shit ton of editing to do. Not that I don’t already have a shit ton of editing to do. But I’ll have double the ton of shit editing in that unfortunate case.
I digress. The scene is short- it’s supposed to be maybe 5 pages, keeping in mind my masochistic font choice. So, you would think that it would take- what?- two hours to write? Forget editing, we’re talking the rough, straight-from-the-jungle-raised-by-wolves draft. Therefore, max time limit would be two hours. And I spent two fucking weeks on this piece of shit. And even after those two long weeks, it sucks. It sounds like it was written by a five year old high on cocaine. Not that I endorse drug use, especially by toddlers.
Now then, fast forward to my ending, which is five scenes long and about 20-30 pages worth of stuff. Guess how long it took my stupid brain to write that thing?
It took me three hours.
Complete bullshit, right? Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying when my own frontal lobe is sabotaging me (in conjunction with a bunch of other sectors of the brain, because typing is a thing that must happen in order to write…and typing means moving…which is controlled by other parts of the brain. But I’m not going to explain neuroscience right now, sorry.).
Okay, I’m done. Rant over. I hope you enjoyed my dulcet tones of profanity and shitty hyphenated metaphors while they lasted.
I might as well apologise for inflicting this horrible post on the world of internet, but what can I say? The word “silence” really inspired me. It made me want to yell.
And I’m really bad at impulse control- if you heard a sound like a cat fucking a koala bear on a bed of bamboo sticks, that was me. I know, I should be like, an opera singer, right?
See you on Sunday with some actual writing. That I actually edited before posting. I’m sorry, but I cannot find a single fuck to give at the moment. Oh wait, there’s one…one and a half…nope. They flitted away like butterflies from a gassing machine. Or like human beings after I’ve eaten Mexican food.