My brain is laughing at my attempts to connect with my mind. I wanted to get writing done today, but I can’t seem to concentrate enough to make it work. There’s a good possibility I’ll force myself later on and see what I can come up with, but sometimes I just want a break and so I’m giving myself one.
There are so many different projects I need to and want to be working on and it can be a little bit overwhelming. Thankfully I don’t have any deadlines at this moment and so I can afford to give myself some leeway.
Do you know what I really want to write though? A story about a princess. I’m pretty sure I’m half-way to being infatuated with them. But that’s the problem. Being infatuated is, by the very definition, short-lived. To write the kind of book I’m seeing in my head I’d have to have a very long-termed eagerness and delight with princesses.
I know it will come one day though. The pieces to this princesses story has slowly been slipping into place for the last three or four years now. One day, one day I’ll allow it out and the book will be so very much fun to write.
Yesterday I was sitting with my feet in the ocean reading a book about writing and imagining new story ideas. I used to worry that I’d run out of story ideas, now I’m convinced I’ll never have enough time to write about all of them.
It’s as if writing stories can be endless. And I’m pretty sure that the facts and ideas and tips and books and blogs and websites that I can read about writing are endless. There’s so much to learn. To put into practice. To incorporate into my life.
My whole life is one big convoluted experience that enhances my writing if viewed and used correctly and a stepping stone to my next milestone. Milestones that I’m happy to try and forget about sometimes for a few hours or days, yet it’s hard because writing is so ingrained in me to my core.
Yet there’s more to life than writing. Which is a good thing. Writing is just part of life. It isn’t my life. At least I try and keep it that way.