I have a few favorite writing instruments. I have strayed but always seem to come back to the Pilot Precise V5 rolling ball pen. It combines a crisp line and enough paper feel to not be sloppy. My only grudge against it is that if you rest too long in one spot you could end up with a rather large ink blot.
Tools. The hallmark of innovation. Where would humanity be without them?
just like carpenters have hammers and nails, writers use the pen and paper or keyboard and word processor. without adequate tools, it is impossible to get adequate writing. I seem to be somewhat of a pen snob. I don't like the way many of them feel when put to paper. I have tried many papers but the pen itself seems to make a significant difference not only in the quality if my script but my desire tip write at all. Supporting my paper seems to moderate my desire to write as well. I hate feeling like I an writing on a slope out having my hand hang over the edge of the surface. It just messes with my concentration.
Frost stabbed its steely tendrils into the tender unsuspecting leaves. There had been little time to prepare for this cold snap. Now, what wasn't harvested was going to spoil.
Good ideas left where they stand seem to frustrate the mind. Perhaps they create a dissonance the mind cannot cope with. Perhaps it its just that it is unfinished business?
As I write I find myself being very self conscious of what I write. Even with people I trust and love,I just find myself bit wanting to share. Sure, I could put it out on the world wide inter webs for all to see and subsequently invite anonymous commentary but that seems like it would invite self loathing in to my plans. To remedy how I think about writing, I have decided to try and write a little every day. This includes here, works in progress, and even other ways. But the other half is to publish a little something every day. A blog post is perfect for this exercise but stories and articles will hopefully be forthcoming.
A little distraction isn't a bad thing, but have you ever stopped to think just how painfully uncomfortable industrial strength park benches and picnic tables are? I sat down at this steel and plasti-dip marvel only to feel my hind parts slowly attempt to strain themselves through the metal mesh screen. I adjusted myself and tried sitting in different ways but it was useless. I moved to a bench but it may have been easier to sit in the sand of the playground than on this dry rotted and several time painted and peeled 4x4 monstrosity. Its longevity was assured by the simple fact that no one wanted to sit on this splinter factory unless forced by sheer desperation.
It seems to help. It seems to help parse what goes on in my head. The rebarbative nature of herds of wild-I-thoughts romping through seems to set anxiety in motion. Just writing. The meditative process of putting in to words the contents on my mind seems as restive as sleep.
Yet my mind never seems to stop building a narrative.
When I awoke this morn, I didn't stop dreaming. I'm not saying dreaming like seeing idealistic goals or anything. My mind was still half in the fantasy land journey our takes me on. I found myself sleepy reviewing a plot I had thought about before attempting to convince my mind that the darkness outside and the late hour indicated was its cue to allow the body some rest. I assume I slept because the afore mentioned time had progressed and I had little to show for it but a need for coffee and a deep desire to grumble about being tired or something like it.
I write for myself. I am my audience. I write stories I would like to read. I seem to have a penchant for heroes over tedious relationships or high drama (sorry Jane Austin, I liked your books but can't see myself in one). I have a soft spot for escapism (Edgar Rice Burroughs) and science fiction (Isaac Asimov). It is hard to focus on the serious tasks of the day when swift submarines and hyper spacial travel beckon you to deep seas ridges and far planet nations skinned in gleaming steel.
What I mean is fantasy drives me to write. Writing drives the details of the fantasy. I write to disgorge the stories in my mind's eye and the act of putting detail and words to these visions drives forth yet more.
I shall ramble no more for the moment.
