Nangbaby (nangbaby) wrote,

  • Mood:
No, wait. Now, I'm going to kill myself.

I normally have no life, which is why I thought I could pursue the challenge for the next month. However, I'm not going to be able to do the 24 days of Final Fantasy because I realize now there is no way I can get any playing time in on Saturdays. It's hard enough for me to squeeze time in for this post. A half-hour of playing and time to actually write up a log is too much given all I have to do.

And for any of you who think that maybe I should turn off my "internal editor" or any crap like that, then I present you below the reason why I have to edit as I'm writing. It's not just because of the typos (of which there are plenty)...

He was armored in the skin of the earth, the sting of his fury unmatched by any other warrior. Snow fell upon his shoulders, adding their chill the metallic luster of the giant buttons shined upon them. A spark of intelligence twinkles in his eyes, betraying the storm of thoughts that raged beneath the surface of his face. Yet at his side was a rather crude weapon, a boomerang covered in red, orange, and yellow streaks that would provide the illusion of a circling flame once it was thrown. Of course, those he would launch his weapon towards would never see the trail.

Crystal sighed, bemoaning the fact that this novel, despite her best efforts, proved to be nothing but a bunch of useless words and concepts. The bubble of her dream that had been popped upon the sharp spikes of reality, offering her to the sacrificial flame of failure. The wheels of productivity had stopped in her head, switching from overdrive to park in an instant. The wire that connected her thoughts to her fingers had failed once again. Only a girl such as her could list Morph as her favorite X-Man and quote the Magna Carta verbatim, yet froze when it came to bringing someting out of her heart.

Suddenly, an idea ran through her blood like a toxic subtance and flashed through her brain with the intensity of a neon sign. Indeed, the urge to write was so stong that she she felt as though a blast carried her into the air, and volt upon volt of electicity surged through her, keeping her aloft through the blizzard of impulses. Gravity soon pulled her buoyant hopes not just to the ground, but through it. Yet she was able to tunnel to the surface of her depression, not letting the full weight of the earth crush her.

This time, the storm of thoughts that raged through her fingers were her own. She began again to weave the tangled web of narratives that would make up this novel. Words flowed from the volcano of her heart, a burning magma that would jet across the page. Each keystroke was a slash against the incredible beast known as her writers block. Yet, a sudden frost froze her flow, and she minimized the window, frustrated at the words that would not come out. The shortcut of IRC beckoned. She didn't want to hear the siren call of the infamous words, "Hey, wanna cyber?" She would not split her attention between a chatroom and her work, she would write... on the icon and type in her password. She wasn't going to get 10,000 words in one day.

By the way, I did not actually do this, which makes me more upset about not getting there. I tried my damndest and pushing through got me nowhere.

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