I’ve developed quite a problem for myself.
Or, perhaps more accurately, my search for the “proper problem” has landed me in a singularly unusual predicament.
See, I enjoy the idea of Writers Having Superstitions.
Little things that make them write better than they would have otherwise.
Like how Schiller kept rotting apples in his desk and would open the desk and take a nice long whiff before getting to work. Or Poe, writing with his cat on his shoulder (though we shan’t mention the raccoon…). Benjamin Franklin, who would write while soaking in the tub. Alexandre Dumas, who wrote his non-fiction on rose-colored paper, fiction on blue, and poetry on yellow. T. S. Eliot, that ole sunshiney soul, who felt he wrote best when he had a head cold.
I want one. I want my own writerly idiosyncrasy.
And I have one. Kind of. I wish it was specific. Mostly, it involves finding ALL THE PROPER FEELINGS, which are usually obtained from fandoms….
and, occasionally, music… which I shan’t get into at the moment, because of thiiiis, below here..
Which you absolutely MUST watch, because it involves 1) Gandalf, 2) a unicycle, and 3) bagpipes.
My problem’s become: once I’ve acquired all the proper feels, all I want to do is curl up on some sand (“I’m so happy”) and rest in a toxic jungle for a while.
Instead of actually writing.
In other news, I started reading A Wrinkle In Time. Because of the beginning, mostly. It involved lightning, so I finally relented.