Monday, June 7, 2010

you're like a simile to me

Several weeks ago I bemoaned the fact that I hadn't written anything at all for practically forever. Strictly speaking, I lied, because I write absolutely every day: lists, notes, emails, texts. I blog, though that possibly cannot be considered any form of writing.

Anyway, I felt perturbed that I did not have a story to write. I've always had a story to write, even if I didn't actually write it. What I mean is that none of the various stories that came into my head and flitted around like stray cats all were ludicrous or boring or they had too many fleas. Wait, what? Mixed metaphors, you come on little cat feet, enveloping the harbor!*

Like I was saying, I had a very strong desire to, well, tell stories, yet nothing presented itself to me for the telling. It's difficult and rather unfulfilling to sit down to write a serious piece on... why lions eat sheep. It seems like this is a common discussion I have with Josiah, my three year old brother.

Then two days ago, something presented itself with very little effort on my part. I made up for that lack of effort by idiotically writing it down by hand. There is a reason why we have laptops, people! It's because generally we like feeling our arms after conveying some wordy thought. Surprise, surprise! And after all these years, I thought typewriters were invented just to give women something to do in the workplace.**

While writing, I reconfirmed something that I knew fairly certainly, but had half-forgotten: I become absolutely consumed with the story I am writing. I don't really know any other writers, but I'm going to have to assume that this is reasonable and therefore reasonably normal (as normal as writers can be), because of the high level of emotional involvement put into the creation of a story. My characters' feelings are my feelings. As such, I tend to get moody and somewhat reclusive as there is so much information I sort through and write. It's difficult. I'm glad this was just a short piece, about 13 (handwritten) pages long.

In other news, it rained today, and I put my camera in a ziploc bag, sealed it, and took pictures in the rain. The sun was shining; I couldn't resist.

Results: exactly what I wanted. I may edit it and throw it on Flickr later.

It's an earlier morning tomorrow, so I'm off.

*Ack! Literary allusions! Ten points for anyone who has a clue who knows what I'm talking about. Fifty points for anyone who knows without using Google.

**I joke Please don't stone me!

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Do I at least get half points for finding vague allusions to it on google? Possibly something said by Carl Sandburg...

And do we get to read the story? :D

tiph said...

I suppose so. :P The poem is called Fog. I read it when I was small and it's stuck with me ever since.

Nope!

Anonymous said...

YAY!

Darn you impudent transfer student...

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who i am!

Tiph used to be this weird hippie chick who sewed things and drank tea and rode bikes and wrote silly things. Then, college came along, and now she's this weird hippie chick with math in her brain and notebooks full of indefinite integrals. And hardly any time to write. This is her space. Thankfully, space is a vacuum and any complaints you may have cannot be heard.

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