Intermission
I'm posting this 'before' the next post, which is going to be big and ornate and eat up all the top space. I wanted to write it out, to put it somewhere public, but I really don't want it eating discussion - HAH! - from the Death Note considerations. This was my original conclusion to the Death Note post. It'll appear after, but be posted beforehand. There's something pleasantly incorrect there. When I excised the discussion of 20th Century Boys from the post, I felt that the conclusion needed rework, and then I realied it was written more to myself - almost as if I was giving myself permission for what I was doing - than it was to you.
Once I have all these thoughts out, however, looking back at the way these two series made me feel, it has filled me with a certain sense of quiet misery. The two series kick around in my head and I realise how grey and how dusty my mind has become in these past few months. With the departure from my life of one friend who very much encouraged me to write was I was good at, and enjoyed, I've realised I'm bearing up under a burden of people who want me to write Because I should write. It's hard to put my finger on the problem - nobody is making me feel bad about my work, nobody is pointing out that for all I keep saying I'm a writer, that I'm working on writing, I haven't written anything in months. I'm afraid that I've lost something, or that some part of me that wants to write is just too used to destroying itself.
I'm not sure if I'm making excuses. I suspect part of it is very much that - that I let myself be made to feel bad about it as an excuse. Right now, I'm staying up late. I know Fox doesn't like that - she sleeps better when I'm there, and ever since Rowdy died, I know I've been more aware of how my thoughts wander when sleep is hovering nearby. But tonight, I wanted to get some writing done, anything, and I'm not going to bed until I'm done. It's 5 AM. Do I use Fox's sleep - Fox's desire for me to be there when she sleeps because it makes her comfortable to be an excuse that drives me away from the practices I know really do push me towards writing?
I listen to my headphones, I stay up late, I drink lots of soda and I read lots of porn. These are the things, that, inexplicably, prompt me to produce writing I'm proud of, ideas I like. And I don't just mean for pornography - I mean for work like Serious Young Woman, which I look at every time I need to remind me of the kind of beautiful things I think and feel about my friends that I can't ever say, even with all my conscious attempts to do so (attempts which wind up fumbling time, and time, and time again). These are all three things I know I shouldn't do. And tonight, I am doing them. And tonight, I am writing.
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