"Down... way down..."

I've been trying to sleep for about an hour now, and can't seem to succeed. So here I am, posting in the hideously early morning about strange, introspective things... bleh. By the way, can anyone tell me the movie my subject line quotes? Anyone?

One of my terribly bothersome thoughts concerns my writing, of course. The section of the satire (still nameless, naturally) I'm working on right now makes me feel like I'm raking mud, and I'm not happy with it at all. I've finally gotten over the crippling belief that I have to wait for inspiration so I can write. Several sections that I felt like crap during are quite nice when I look at them now. Hopefully these will turn out similarly, but there are certain problems with pacing that weren't present before. By the by, if you think you could discourse on such things as pacing in a fantasy satire, contact me if you dare.

The result of all this is - I'm once again wondering if I'm fit to be a writer. I'm feeling that I lack a certain real style to me prose that would make me worth reading. Now the proofreading comments Dr. Blythe (my creative writing teacher from last semester) made on my short story seem to throttle me into submission. I wonder if I can clear the threshold between ideas and writing. I'm absolutely certain the idea behind the story is interesting. I find I share interests with people, and I find the idea fascinating. But did I make a story that conveyed the interest? That's the question.

"I'm not really clear what this piece is for." That's how my professor opened his sort-of final comment on my story. There's all sorts of ways one can take that, and just now I'm taking it terribly. He also claims that "as a gothic musing in the fashion of Poe, it's pretty effective." This is more promising. (I hope terribly he doesn't mind me quoting him here.)

My work ethic has improved, though. I settle down at around the same time every day (around one thirty in the morning) and get around a thousand words (scrabbled together a thousand words, lately). That's a nice feeling, anyway. Of course, moreso than a short story that took a few hours to write, sending this off to be proofread will be stunningly, blindingly terrifying. Ick.

The other thing is strange and horrifyingly self-indulgent, I suppose. I just wonder if I shouldn't try to add to my roster of EKU friends a person with similar interests in literature et cetera. Certainly, Sehmket likes Oscar Wilde; Kelly and Theresa like Terry Pratchett. But I don't consistently associate with anyone that has my passionate hatred for misuse of possessive apostrophes in pluralizations. Well, I won't be able to now that Russdur will be unable to return. I feel as if I should trawl the English department (one wonders - does anyone else know that school subject titles aren't capitalized, unless you're talking about an English course [or any language course]?) for people to subjugate with my own peculiar brand of friendship. I wonder if Zana (is that the right spelling?) has moved yet? Heh. Dammit, I need someone to get my jokes!

If you know me personally and are offended by the previous paragraph, don't be.

Are you still? Well bugger, you're persistent. I never said I wanted to drop people, just find a few more. Now if I ever find an attractive English major adept at video games, you're on your own. Haha. Oh jeez.

It strikes me that I need to find a place to put all my dust jackets. They're in a large pile in my floor (along with most other things) and that can't be good for them.

For those who've done it, need to do it, or are just naturally empathetic, look out. I'm taking the UWR - that is, the University Writing Requirement - this coming Tuesday. Which means I get to drive all the way to Richmond (about two hours, if you're not familiar with the area) for a bloody high school essay. And I've no idea how long the thing will be. There's vague hopes of me seeing King Arthur afterwards, but we'll see what comes of that.

On a side note: I managed to fight off the urge to have one of my satire's characters recite Tennyson's Idylls of the King, but I'm apparently writing up What the Thunder Said as my climax. Bloody mythological symbolism. I also managed to reference a play I've never read. I'll be trying to fix that soon. The reference was this: I named a pair of short, magical brothers "Rafe" and "Robin." Anyone get it? Anyone? I also need to re-read a bit of Volpone, as I think I'm gonna have a scene with a mountebank.