Nothing to Say…

Or is there? After my last post I wanted to make sure I started putting more information up here. Then the problem becomes what do I write about? Now I have to start thinking up writing prompts and doing research. Is this something I want to do? If I do decide to do it, am I really going to commit to that research and effort? I spend a great deal of my time, wasting time. This is my greatest problem the one that I need to overcome, if I actually want to start doing some writing…

Saw THIS the other day and thought it was interesting and compellingly creative. I never would have thought that making money was an art form and even if the thought had crossed my mind, who would have thought it was a viable of making a living. The money looks amazing, even more the back-story with its steampunk flair is fun as well.

Guess I need to sit down and come up with something to write about… think. think. think…

More Random Thoughts…

I know I wanted to write something to do. One of my New Year resolutions was to write everyday. It only took about 72 hours for that resolution to fall apart. I haven’t even been able to write once a week. Not here, not in my journal, and not in/on any of my “creative” endeavors. I have no excuses. I can only chalk it up to my own laziness. That isn’t to say things aren’t going on in my life that demand attention. None of them though, excuse me from pursuing my so-called dreams. Dreams that have so far been ignored and relegated to the furthest parts of my mind.

Can I really consider them dreams? Actually, that is probably the most accurate term. Dreams are things that just happen, you do not work for them. They are like miracles, asked for but never worked for. Is that the problem? That I do not couch my aspirations as goals or ends to achieve, but, rather as dreams? Is this all a useless argument? One in which the end result is me blaming semantics for my lack of energy? It goes without saying that this little tirade of mine has accomplished nothing and unless I begin to make real changes in my life and how I live (not a total Life make-over, but rather how I approach my goals, beginning with actually approaching them).

Airing my grievances against myself won’t do anything toward that either, I imagine. Seeing them here though on my blog and the accompanying guilt might do something.

On Reading…

I just finished reading Gaiman’s and Pratchett’s collaboration, Good Omens. I’d never read it before and hadn’t heard of it until a few months back. Apparently its a pretty big deal.

Anyway, not what I wanted to talk about. As I came to the last few pages of the book, a familiar depression settled down upon me. The same one I get whenever I have picked up a good piece of fiction and become absorbed into it’s world. I knew it was all ending, and I didn’t want it to. For me The Word can be so powerful. Every book I consider good has done this. It has removed me temporarily from this reality and for a short time I was able to enjoy another. And then they end.

The best books make you think, regardless of the genre. You set it down, closing the covers for the last time. You sigh, and you think. “What if…?” Does it end there for you? Do your “what ifs” ever become spring board for action? As any piece of fiction made you uncomfortable with who you were? Or where you were going in life? Has it made you change your mind? Has it made you think and if you thought, did you ever act on them?

I wish I had answers…

Joyce, Stream of Consciousness, and what-not

Stream of consciousness is not as easy to write as one might think. What could be easier than transcribing your thoughts as they come to you? I don’t even think I could describe how hard it is. You should try it though. Just write what immediately comes into your head…

I’ll wait…

Did it come in words? Sentences with grammar included? If so then you weren’t doing it right or you editorialized yourself. Not that you can write true stream. Joyce didn’t he tried to, and even his tightly and meticulously constructed stream is nigh impossible to understand. Read Ulysses. If you can get through it I’d like you to tell me what you took out of it. Without the help of Cliff, if you please or the assistance of a tome of literary criticism. I’ve read the book twice, the first just to read it, the second was an attempt at understanding. I’ve never had a more painful experience in my life. I immediately suspect people who tell me that they get the book. I suspect that they are either lying or stupid. I also suspect that Joyce wrote the book as a cruel joke… Those who say they do understand it, are only better bull shit artists than you or I…

Anyone that’s enough for now. I have nothing left to say.

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