I want to scrap the whole Witness Darling universe. I like my Shame Corner idea and the bombs and everything, but I feel like I need to pull Lyris out of it. I actually have no idea if she fits the role that I need her to play, but I want her in another story. I feel like I have too many things going on.
What to do. I’ve spent a year on this and I don’t want to get rid of it completely, but I still don’t know how to go about placing Lyris in another setting.
That’s what I thought while watching the movie. It looked like he was stretching specifically to play. |
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Camp NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow, but I won’t have access to a computer all weekend. Guess I’ll have to write by hand.
I think I’ll set my word count to 25k instead of 50k (can I do that?). Exams are coming up, and there’s always August. Speaking of August, I’m also away for the very beginning of the month. I hate it when I miss the very first day of a month-long event.
The logic solution to my dilemma is to just not participate — that’s what anybody else would do. But NO, why is it that I will still participate when I know that it’s going to be a gruelling month?
Let the writing begin.
Darn UBC course schedules do not understand that I need want to take Sociology.
Why must they all conflict?
Moving my creative writing class is not an option. It stays on my timetable.
Why are you so strange, Mr. Rochester? I don’t know whether to take you seriously or not…
While you have, or rather, had fears that you may cease to be, I have fears that I will never write as well as you. I know perfectly well that you were a genius, and that you wrote in an entirely different time period and style. The fact that you were a genius puts me off from ever aspiring to surpass your brilliance, but it does not stop me from striving for improvement.
What I fear is that I will never surpass my own level of writing. Will I ever improve? Will I ever write something better? Will I ever bring my writing to a whole new level? I fear that I am static, that the poetry I write will always be silly and meaningless, just words from a confused adolescent girl.
I do not expect brilliance to explode inside of me tomorrow, nor do I expect myself to go down in history with the status of William Shakespeare, John Donne, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rainer Maria Rilke, JK Rowling, or like you, Mr. Keats. However, I want to be proud of what I’ve achieved by the time I reach the end of my rope. By the time I have drowned myself from the inside out I want to have a feeling of accomplishment, to know that I have impacted at least one person with my combinations of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet.
How do you do what you do, Mr. Keats? Can you let me into your teeming brain, or is there no more room, just nothing but stardust and miracles left in the skull of one of the dead.
How do you do what you do, they ask me sometimes, looking at the paper I fold in my hands. How do you do what you do, my parents ask, when they look at my writing. How do you do what you do, I ask, when I behold my father’s woodwork.
Talent.
While you have fears that you may cease to be, I have fears that I will cease to contain any talent, if I had had a morsel of it to begin with.
