Still only just coming down...

So THAT's why I put myself through it...

I have spent a fair amount of time over the last couple of weeks wondering why I even wanted to write at all. Especially at the start of last night, when I was sitting squirming in front of a blank screen, desperately wanting to be anywhere else, be doing anything else, and seriously questioning my sanity since there was nothing stopping me getting up and walking away. Wondering if I actually wanted to write at all, or if I just thought I did.

But then something condensed and I hit a perfect flow: the world faded out, there was a clear voice in my head, words were pouring out faster than I could type. For a couple of hours, I was flying. And then the high that comes afterwards is incomparable - that delirious buzz of knowing that something real exists in the world that wasn't there that morning, that you dreamt into being. Come to think of it, I get a similar feeling at work, but far less intense. Even though I chose Art over English when it came to University, I think writing may be my true love. Still, I think that's maybe the right way round: a job providing steady enjoyment, a hobby as your burning passion.

Or maybe it's just that I know i can get paid to draw, I'm not so sure I could get paid to write.

Still, athenemiranda said something interesting about 'There are no proper writers. They're just a self-created MYTH!' It's an intriguing concept, and one I might have to play with...

It's also interesting that the story that soared was one that was mine completely, pulled whole from somewhere in the back of my mind. I'm wondering now if that's one reason why I've been struggling so hard the last couple of months... the three-word story requests were a nice idea, but they may be a bit too specific, taking me to a place where I couldn't function. I've not given up on them, especially as I figure writing something to order like that is a useful skill that *can* be learned, but I'm definitely going to have to stop beating myself up for not pulling them out of thin air.

Also, I may be a bit of a perfectionist. Last night I was ranting and raving and cursing Neil Gaiman and Douglas Adams and many more for being better writers than me. Not that I want to be as good a them. I want to be better. Kris says I am a perfectionist when it comes to perfectionsism. Which made my brain hurt, but I fear he may be right.

(Yeah, that bit may not be news to some people...)

(Also, any volunteers to give the resultant story a read and offer an opinion still welcomed - only 500 words so it's a quick read.)

What else?

As I mentioned elsewhere, I got asked for ID last night when shopping in Sainsburys. As you can imagine, being tall, this isn't something that happened to me much over the years, even when I was in my teens, so I had no idea how to react, other than to gape a few times and say 'I don't carry ID. I'm thirty-two.' I can't figure out whether it's flattering or not - a few years ago it might have been, but these days when people think I'm ridiculously young I always fear it's because they are picking up on a deep-set streak of immaturity.

Off tonight to see Wolverine after work with a couple of girls from the studio. (It's an anti-girlie night out - none of us is very girlie...) At least, we will be if we can get out of here - considering this month is supposed to be the calm before the storm, we seem to be getting ridiculously busy again. My calendar is creaking, and some stupidly late nights may be coming. Not tonight, though, for we are determined. Guards are being distracted and escape tunnels dug in preparation.

Tomorrow evening I head over to my parents for puppy-sitting duties. Puppy (Cassie) has apparently calmed down a lot but still resembles a small fluffy torpedo with a broken guidance system. That whole 'I want a dog thing' may about to encounter some serious shock therapy...