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From the Department of Unfinished Tales: After reading Neil Gaiman's speech on comic-writing and/ or art in general, suddenly any half-thought-off project that ever crossed my mind within the last few years has decided that now and here is the exact point of time that I should grapple them. While it is always good to have ideas and even better to be inspired, it is not quite so good to be in the center of a storm of conflicting ambitious ideas that all want to come out at once. While it is wonderful to be the vessel of some stories, weak though they may be, it is not quite so wonderful to have not nearly enough time for them, not with anything else I want, or need, to do. While I love being inspired and motivated, I don't quite love being inspired into a frenzy of thoughts that, eventually, keeps me from getting anything done at all.
Six projects.
One I have to finish because I started it publicly: No way to draw back. Although it already has gigantic gaps in the plot and I stumble now in places where I thought my rational convictions were better for the story than the random bits of inspiration the story deigned to let me know. That was of course wrong: Whenever I get along, I see that I should have followed the story, not my idea of the story.
One is doomed to be mine until I discard it once and for all, because I just can't write it. I think of it kindly, however, now and then.
One might be bound to the same fate, although I really want to write it down, even though it smells of Mary Sue-ism, would begin with some serious stretching of reality, and I would be playing with somebody else's work: But I got bitten by the plotbunny of doom, so what can I do.
One that would, if ever executed, demand large amounts of research, drawing, colouring, for which I cannot muster the patience, not now, maybe not ever. It would be an unfamiliar medium, take unfamiliar amounts of discipline, and probably never turn out as great as I would want it to.
One that is coming along slowly, ever so slowly, but it's coming along: But it's not my own work, it is but copying and drawing. I love it dearly, maybe even more so because it's not mine. But it's mere copying, and sometimes I'm afraid that's all I'm good for. Quoting. Maybe paraphrasing.
One that feels like it would be fun to do, although it's unlikely that it'll ever be done. It would be fun, certainly, but there is no time for fun when there are so many more earnest projects to do.
Along with a lot of randomness, drabbles, short stories, that I don't even consider because I don't trust my ability to wield words well enough to accomplish what I would want to; and in such short stuff, well-wielded words are even more important than in larger projects where I might hide my weakness in expression behind an abundance of ideas.
I may be able to think up jewels (or at least they look like it when I think them up), but once I write them down, they turn to coloured glass at best. Once I start to speak, only sand is left, which is why I don't even think about performative art. Ai, Fëanor, who could create perfect jewels even with his hands: You know not how I envy you.
More importantly: Two presentations, two term-papers, one assignment, one exam. I seriously have to do something about those.
Had I but world enough, and time, this inspiration were no crime...
As for yesternight's prom, it was acceptably enjoyable. Although it's strange meeting one's teachers after two years of release; stranger to tell them what one is doing now, and even stranger when they don't recognize you and just smile and nod in hopes that you'll take that as a sign of recognition. It's strange to watch your brother dancing. A propos dancing: I Have Not Been Born To Be A Dancer. Especially not a good one. Especially not a professional one. I like to move to music; I like to jump around pointlessly. I also like the continuity, flow and form of medieval dances. I envy people who can dance standard properly, because I can't. I dance for fun, not for sport. It's hard to have a boyfriend who is a good dancer and needs a lot of convincing before he can be dragged to the dancefloor with clumsy a dancer as me, although he did seem to enjoy it, eventually.
No, it was nice. It felt very strange and somewhat wistful, but it was nice, all in all.
Six projects.
One I have to finish because I started it publicly: No way to draw back. Although it already has gigantic gaps in the plot and I stumble now in places where I thought my rational convictions were better for the story than the random bits of inspiration the story deigned to let me know. That was of course wrong: Whenever I get along, I see that I should have followed the story, not my idea of the story.
One is doomed to be mine until I discard it once and for all, because I just can't write it. I think of it kindly, however, now and then.
One might be bound to the same fate, although I really want to write it down, even though it smells of Mary Sue-ism, would begin with some serious stretching of reality, and I would be playing with somebody else's work: But I got bitten by the plotbunny of doom, so what can I do.
One that would, if ever executed, demand large amounts of research, drawing, colouring, for which I cannot muster the patience, not now, maybe not ever. It would be an unfamiliar medium, take unfamiliar amounts of discipline, and probably never turn out as great as I would want it to.
One that is coming along slowly, ever so slowly, but it's coming along: But it's not my own work, it is but copying and drawing. I love it dearly, maybe even more so because it's not mine. But it's mere copying, and sometimes I'm afraid that's all I'm good for. Quoting. Maybe paraphrasing.
One that feels like it would be fun to do, although it's unlikely that it'll ever be done. It would be fun, certainly, but there is no time for fun when there are so many more earnest projects to do.
Along with a lot of randomness, drabbles, short stories, that I don't even consider because I don't trust my ability to wield words well enough to accomplish what I would want to; and in such short stuff, well-wielded words are even more important than in larger projects where I might hide my weakness in expression behind an abundance of ideas.
I may be able to think up jewels (or at least they look like it when I think them up), but once I write them down, they turn to coloured glass at best. Once I start to speak, only sand is left, which is why I don't even think about performative art. Ai, Fëanor, who could create perfect jewels even with his hands: You know not how I envy you.
More importantly: Two presentations, two term-papers, one assignment, one exam. I seriously have to do something about those.
Had I but world enough, and time, this inspiration were no crime...
As for yesternight's prom, it was acceptably enjoyable. Although it's strange meeting one's teachers after two years of release; stranger to tell them what one is doing now, and even stranger when they don't recognize you and just smile and nod in hopes that you'll take that as a sign of recognition. It's strange to watch your brother dancing. A propos dancing: I Have Not Been Born To Be A Dancer. Especially not a good one. Especially not a professional one. I like to move to music; I like to jump around pointlessly. I also like the continuity, flow and form of medieval dances. I envy people who can dance standard properly, because I can't. I dance for fun, not for sport. It's hard to have a boyfriend who is a good dancer and needs a lot of convincing before he can be dragged to the dancefloor with clumsy a dancer as me, although he did seem to enjoy it, eventually.
No, it was nice. It felt very strange and somewhat wistful, but it was nice, all in all.
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