Do Zebras Need Pinstriped Suits?

The Irishman has called me out on what could possibly be labelled my own bullshit; the point has been raised that if I never have the time to write, where do all these blog entries come from?  I write them on the bus, was my reply, and this is for the most part true.

Then why don't you write stories on the bus? came the followup inquiry, and really I should have seen that one coming from a mile away.

Well, fine. The man has a point, he usually does, I find it best to just do what he says.

The fact of it is, when it comes to a choice between the writing of my own thoughts, which is easy, or the writing of short stories, which is a process best described as trying to pull out my own teeth with a pair of chopsticks, I generally choose self-obsessed meandering about the environs of my own head.

This is lazy.

And so, when the semester is done and the work is in, all blogging impulses will be redirected to writing of a more fictitious bent, and let's see what comes of it. Why am I not commencing with this right now? Because I still need a place to bitch about schoolwork, of course, and will until the semester ends.

Currently working on the Damn Shakespeare Thing for EngCompII, chipping away still at Muse (because no matter how many times I'm told it's done I know in my heart it bloody well isn't), and staring blankly at Ghost, which is a difficult little piece because it's reflective of a life that is nothing at all like mine.

They're all difficult, really. I keep trying to say something bigger and more mighty than what I am saying, and I keep falling flat. Trying too hard, I suspect, and I'm willing to bet it reflects in the writing. It's just...I look at a thing I've written and it's...good, yes, but I keep thinking it could be better, cleaner, say more, tug on the heartstrings without being hopelessly melodramatic, make the point, have the point be a good one. I've spent years on pointless writing with the (correct) justification that it was practice, polish for the rough edges, learning how to do it. But it  was playtime, really, a baby lion pouncing and rolling about in the dust.

I can't help but feel that I know how to hunt now, and ought to be out stalking zebra...

...even though I still have the terrible habit of extending a bad metaphor for the sake of the wordplay. Zebras, I ask you.

In any case, you get the point. Playtime's over now. Time to take what skills I have and see what the wide world will make of them. Yes, it's work, and hard work, but I can't spend my life romping about doing only the pointless, pressure-free fun things. Not if I want to accomplish anything whatsoever. And the glow I get in my chest whenever I actually finish something is...

Well. It's good. Worth the work and the neuroses and the hours staring blankly into space trying to find enough words to perfect the rough thing that I clattered out in a paroxysm of glee-filled hypercreativity, which is usually what happens.

Pah. In other words, let's get to writing.