Their own shadow? That'd be me.
I live in a state of gray. Which I've said before. But it makes it hard to do what I know I can/want/really wish I was clever enough to do...which is write a decent anything. Hehe. I'm kevetching (is there a correct spelling for that, cause I don't know it if there is).
To be honest, I spend more time thinking about my story than writing it. I do this with most things. I need to be a better War General and just throw my troops into the attack head on. Problem is, I sit down and it's like I turn into a Arty from Geek Love. No arms, no fingers to speak of, horribly critical attitude. Though he was much better written than I am. At least he had a sense of purpose.
And I keep getting caught up in research, which is something I really, really like to do. More so than any sane human I would venture. And I'm addicted to links. If I can click it and have it take me somewhere more interesting, I'm on it.
Tim, from the DC, likened writing this stuff to giving birth to glass. I agree. I might as well pull out my synapses one by one, bang them together, call in the dendrites and throw them all in the blender and hit go. Maybe I'd come up with something.
Alrighty...in typical fashion I'm writing about not being able to write. I am such a verbal thinker. I don't even like therapists and I'm always finding myself needing to just "talk it out". Which sucks because no one cares about this as much as I do. This is a given and something that I will have to get used to. Knight in shining armor aside, I don't think I'd want someone to be as obsessive about my stuff as I am. I would run away from them. Hm..
What is that about the things we don't like in ourselves are the things we criticize in others?
So-I'm going to go resign myself to working on the family portrait sketch that I am doing at the moment for my side project, finish taking my notes and write down anything that comes to me. I have some mediocre dialogue at the moment, though I think everyone sounds the same. I bought a new book, albeit it was Paulo Cohelo, so I'm not going to learn anything about writing diverse characters (All of his books have the exact same person as their protagonist I think. He's a bit too in love with love.) but it was the only book in English that wasn't some stupid romance novel or trash thriller.
And, I promise, by the time all the rest of the world is awake, I'll have something posted for chapter three. I even promise to keep my self loathing and internal criticisms to myself. (c:
Happy writing to all of you with fingers.