Remember how I was bitching that I had no ideas for writing? Remember how I said the Universe was strangely silent on the matter? Remind my ass to never do that shit again.
A one-off comment to FangBunny earlier today sparked an idea for a short story. I wrote 14 pages of the story--some 5,000 words--and realized, nope, there's no way this is gonna be a "short story" because I wasn't even halfway through it at that point yet. So I was all, "Ok, this is gonna be a novella." Then I wrote another 2,000+ words' worth of notes for it and realized, FML, it's going to have to be a novel to make sure all the threads I've picked up are properly tied up in the end.
So...I have an idea for a novel ON TOP OF the blog/novel thing I'm already working on. Apparently, poetry has been abandoned for the time being while I'm the Universe's bitch again.
My biggest fear is that I'm going to lose interest and not do this thing. I hope not, but I may. I usually end up doing just that. I suppose, though, if the Universe is making me its bitch once more, it's not going to let me give up on it. It'll squeeze me until it wrings the whole fucking story out of me, drop by drop. Part of me hopes it doesn't because that is one PAINFUL ass process, let me tell you. But a bigger part hopes it does because I'm really excited about this. Hopefully, the excitement will last 'til I'm finished. Or at least until I'm far enough along that I can't justify quitting.
I'm also terrified because this is a daunting task that I may or may not be up to, but I'm going to throw everything I've got at it and hope I can handle it.
No, goddammit, I'm going to fucking handle it because I can't handle anything else in my life, and I refuse to fuck THIS up, too. Why? This quote by my idol, Sylvia motherfucking Plath herself, is why:
"What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age."
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