![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blah
So, I have 45 minutes and nothing to do. All the stats and reports and etc. are done.
It's flippin' cold in my office.
No writing inspiration.
The kids are abed, hubby is tinkering with linux.
Note to vid folks: if you tried to download a Mudd video in the last week and failed, please try again. We just moved webservers and operating systems, and Mudd just caught a flaw today.
Fear has come upon me in the last month, since I started the meds.
When asked why I write, I said:
My greatest anxiety is that the words will STOP.
I will live the rest of my life doing prosaic little things, or heavily medicated because the monsters got me (again), and never know what it's like to have the words burning out of me like "gotterfunken" (sp) God-fire/GodSpark.
My fear is that I will open a story to write and there will be nothing. I'll move to my relief story, and nothing there. And I'll close my word processor and go wash dishes, and wash clothes and vacuum and make sure we have butter, and the house is clean. And there will never be brandy and summer sandals because I will always be sensible.
My fear is that I will become Susan and lose my stories. I'll go to church, and it will be all words and ritual with none of the story and passion and Myth(because nice people don't want that). I will read to the kids and it will just be words: I'll never again get lost with Tom and Becky, or paint the walls with Olivia, or sail on a gnomish ship. TV will be something to watch and forget. Books will be full of facts of about railways and imports and exports.
And so it goes. I watch cartoons, not seeing them, as I fold laundry. I am amazed not by unfolding vistas in my mind, but by the shininess of my kitchen counter.
Time for a gauzy dress and sun hat, cause i just moved to Stepford, and they got me.
It's flippin' cold in my office.
No writing inspiration.
The kids are abed, hubby is tinkering with linux.
Note to vid folks: if you tried to download a Mudd video in the last week and failed, please try again. We just moved webservers and operating systems, and Mudd just caught a flaw today.
Fear has come upon me in the last month, since I started the meds.
When asked why I write, I said:
My greatest anxiety is that the words will STOP.
I will live the rest of my life doing prosaic little things, or heavily medicated because the monsters got me (again), and never know what it's like to have the words burning out of me like "gotterfunken" (sp) God-fire/GodSpark.
My fear is that I will open a story to write and there will be nothing. I'll move to my relief story, and nothing there. And I'll close my word processor and go wash dishes, and wash clothes and vacuum and make sure we have butter, and the house is clean. And there will never be brandy and summer sandals because I will always be sensible.
My fear is that I will become Susan and lose my stories. I'll go to church, and it will be all words and ritual with none of the story and passion and Myth(because nice people don't want that). I will read to the kids and it will just be words: I'll never again get lost with Tom and Becky, or paint the walls with Olivia, or sail on a gnomish ship. TV will be something to watch and forget. Books will be full of facts of about railways and imports and exports.
And so it goes. I watch cartoons, not seeing them, as I fold laundry. I am amazed not by unfolding vistas in my mind, but by the shininess of my kitchen counter.
Time for a gauzy dress and sun hat, cause i just moved to Stepford, and they got me.