It doesn't matter *when* the last horse crosses the line

It's a strange feeling to experience an epiphany. You stroll along through life thinking or acting in a specific way, and then WHAM! Out of nowhere, the littlest thing can turn a little switch in your brain and your entire perspective can be altered.

I am very much of the opinion that we are shaped by the things we go through and how we react to them. It is odd then, that when looking back on past relationships I seem to just shrug them off with a "thank God I got out of that." But there is a flaw to that. Yes those relationships ended for good reasons, but to just act like they were a waste of time is silly. I had some genuinely great times with those girls and I want to start remembering them that way. Recognize them as being a part of who I am, and not a regretted time and place.

Already this slightly shifted perspective has been fairly cathartic. I'm focusing on realigning myself at the moment, and this has been a positive result of some of that effort. Being unemployed sucks, but at the same time it's giving me a chance to get to know myself and spend a little more time with friends. And hey, it doesn't matter *when* the last horse crosses the line, as long as the last horse *does* cross the line.

A Victory Nonetheless

I finally hit a stride with my writing. I haven't moved forward on my story yet but I've found a way to get the words flowing.

I heard about a situation an acquaintance went through, and after looking at it from different sides I decided it might make an interesting short narrative. So I sat down with no real structure in mind and started a guided free-write. I used the bare bones of the story and fleshed out the details and thoughts with my own personal ideas. I hit a good rhythm and before stopping to fix a spelling error, I had three solid pages of text.

It wasn't great work, and it may not have even been good. However, it helped forge a connection between my brain and the page. I'm going to make some other situational narratives and see if I can build some momentum, or even just get used to writing every day.

So far it's strictly recreational, and I have no desire to show them to anyone, but I do still think my story has an interesting setup, and maybe with some work it can be something I'm really proud of. I haven't been writing much in the way of music lately, so it's nice to have another vent with which to clear my head.

It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Chapter 2 could be right around the corner.

Nothing if Not Persistant

Well here I am. My head feels like it's got a case of Alien-Stomach (you know, Alien waiting to pop out, as seen in ....well...Alien...) and my throat has decided it's now sandpaper. Handy for those splintered wood shelves, not so good for anything else.

I'm surrounded by piles of different media. Star Wars and Evil Dead 2 in one pile, Wil Wheaton's book and an issue of Empire magazine in another, and Mass Effect 3 leering at me from in front of the tv. I've got indecision, and I've got it bad. I reach for the Empire magazine. I open to a page with a preview for the Clash of the Titans sequel. I throw the Empire magazine. I walk back over to it, pick it up, and throw it again.

I read a section from Wil Wheaton's book. It's about Star Wars. So I get distracted and start feeling the urge to watch Star Wars. I realize that I haven't retained the last two paragraphs I read. I sigh.

I read the two paragraphs again, and then finish the story. It's a great book, and so far it's winning in this battle of distractions. (Or is Star Wars winning? Since it distracted me from the book?....wait...what was I writing?...hm)

I bring in another option from outside the original choices. I open the story I'm working on. I change a few phrases. Satisfied, I try to pick up the feeling I was going with last time I wrote. I fail pretty badly. Seeing that what I just wrote is about to be erased, I push it and make it even worse and more ridiculous. I laugh and consider keeping it to show to people and act like I honestly think it's good. I "save as" under a different title and tuck the joke away for later use.

I hear the cat running across the upstairs rooms, from one end to the other and back again. I wonder if she's acting out what my brain is doing. Smug feline. "Just because you can run doesn't mean...uh...shut up" I yell to/at the cat. Yeah. That'll get her.

I've irreparably lost my train of thought and mutter cat insults while closing the Word document.

I look back at my book. I could swear Wil is now giving me a reproachful look from the cover. "You lost to the cat man. It can't even understand you." Shut up, Wesley.

I immediately apologize to the book. Then feel stupid for apologizing to a book.

I'm going to watch Star Wars. Life is weird.

In Which Our Hero Attempts to Write!

I have always been a fan of stories. Early on in my life, the stories I was obsessed with, began with "Star" and ended with "Wars."

I won a copy of the novelization of the Star Wars trilogy in the completion of a ridiculous dare to run up to a stranger, yell "hi mom!!" and hit myself with a water balloon. It's not the dumbest thing I've done on a dare, nor the worst prize I've been awarded for doing something stupid. I read the 600 page tome in about two weeks. I remember the next time I watched "a new hope" with someone I casually pointed out that the stormtrooper Leia shoots near the beginning of the movie got himself killed because he was smiling to himself and thinking of how he would be rewarded for capturing the princess. I knew this because I read the book. I felt smug and superior. I was not. I was closer to this.

My excitement and love for the book grew and I decided I would write my own story, using my favorite characters from Star Wars. How could it fail? I envisioned a bright future of fame, awards, and hot star wars girls. I was going places. The only thing I needed to do was write.

"The Jawa yelled 'help!' and ran away. Boba Fett shot him and looked angry." This is removed verbatim (not verbatim) from my story.

Ok it's been a long time and I don't know that that was exactly what I wrote, but I remember writing it, and saving it to a 3.5" disk that I very proudly labelled "star wars stories by David Logghe."

Good sense prevailed and I did not ever finish that story. I went on to start a number of different stories, some about star wars, some early attempts at a detective story (without having a real clue at what detectives do apart from sit at a desk and talk to themselves), and stupid little narratives to vent my annoyances (such as: The Cat who was also the devil).

Sadly this is a trend that has happened numerous times throughout my life. I no longer attempt to write Star Wars fanfiction, but I do find myself constantly under the binds of writer's block. Though I don't know that I can consider myself a writer when I've got a number of word documents starting with "Chapter 1" and none with "Chapter 2."

I have started another story, based on an idea I've been kicking around for a year or two. It's a simple little fantasy/sci-fi story that would probably work well as a short story but lacks the arc and polish needed for a true novel. I started working on it again a couple days ago, and found myself quickly in a spot where I didn't know how to proceed. I'm going to try to write a little bit every day, and even if it's trash maybe I can finally finish a story. That feeling alone would be pretty good I imagine.

Until then, I'm working on a new story:

My Novel: The butthead meanie that won't finish itself. Writing is dumb. The story.
by Dave Logghe.