oswulf: (Default)
There is a war. Always a war. And the details change. The sides change. Everything changes but the war remains. The same war fought over and over and over. And we mock the people fighting over the things and using the excuses that we did yesterday, mocking their backdrop even as we continue the same behavior. Scenery doesn’t change the nature of the beast.

Doctor King said that the arc of history is long but it bends toward justice. And I believe that—usually. But as the issue of the day passes into yesterday, as we feel so superior to our ancestors over classism or papal indulgences, slavery, genocide, mutilations, women’s suffrage, anything. Time and again, individual wrongs evolve from a given to heatedly contested to horror-inducing and disdained. And yet the same battle will rise and play out again.

Well here’s a pattern. Very different things but parallel… wossname… way I am sort of thing.

Need to make better food choices… so stop an unhealthy choice. But if you don’t *replace* it with something, you’re setting yourself up for failure.

And now unhealthy monkey choices. But if I just cast them aside, if I stop unhelpful ‘zone 4’ activities but I don’t REPLACE them with anything… I’m still not getting anything zone 1 or 2 done—just… setting myself to stumble across some other zone 4 activity for the monkey to play with.

Random typing. Throwing thoughts onto paper. Thoughts of at best questionable value. Is there any reason to keep it? And if I do… where? And what chance that I ever even look at it again? So often writings and stories and whatnot become part of some mess, looked at only while cleaning & faced with the decision to keep or discard… then again ignored until the next cleaning after that.

Trigorin (I am almost certainly spelling that wrong) speaks of the trials of writing. Feeling that he should put forth about “life and science and the rights of man” and worrying that he is only a scenery painter. I see that. I want to write stories—at least I think that’s what I want. Flights of fantasy, tongue-in-cheek repartee awash among fantastical worlds. But then… I want to write meaning. Perhaps addressing cruelty and compassionlessness is the fuel I need, perhaps I simply despair of value in my life when I am not adding something productive toward a better future. “I am Ozymandius, King of Kings. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

“What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Are the revealing of a deeper thirst this world can’t satisfy?”
--Blessings, Laura Storey

It’s not just the conflict, it is how we deal with the conflict. The ends does not justify the means. In the long run, the means ARE the end. As fervently as I maintain that the true path lies not in picking a side and valiantly raging against the other, but in seeing how we can all work together and do better by everyone—that same philosophy should apply to how I carry forward that argument.

And sooner or later, is this whole line of babbling just another zone 4 plaything of my procrastination monkey? Am I genuinely progressing toward resolving something, toward some breakthrough of… something… or is this just the same old cycle?
oswulf: (Default)
So that didn't work so much. Though wonder if my biggest problem is that I lost track of my initial intention to write an hour per day. At any rate...

I have created oswulf.freeforums.org so we'll see if anything happens with that. Meanwhile they happen to have started a new writing game here on dreamwidth. Is this Him moving in mysterious ways? Seems like whenever I hear a sermon it seems oddly poignant. Am I drifting off topic?

What is my point? Why am I even writing this entry? And do I really think freeforums will get anywhere? Or that it will even not spontaneously disappear on me?
oswulf: (Default)
August goal was 12 days of writing. Achieved 12 days exactly, again including the last several. So… is the lesson that I’m pushing too hard or, more likely, that I need harder goals which I will continue just barely making? Also should really clarify what does and doesn’t “count” as a day’s writing. For the purposes of this month I have counted editing previously written material as “writing” for that day but not as adding to the word count total.

August goal was 4130 words. Total for August is 5366 words.

Hardly what I’d call “leaped with room to spare”. So…

For September let’s expand the goal to 15 days (which is essentially identical to the ‘6-days goal’ I started with for July.) And… maybe setting a 7500 word goal will encourage “days” that don’t challenge the definition. Again, I’ll let editing count against ‘days’ but not against ‘words’.
oswulf: (Default)
All right. Started the month with goals low enough I'm almost ashamed of them and just barely met them--which, I suppose is better than not meeting them.

Aimed for 6 days of writing and didn't set a wordcount goal.

And hit 6 days exactly (5 of them being 27-31)

I really don't want to admit to a 2065 word count because I'm embarrassed to even counting a sixth of that as writing. But... slow start, build confidence. Sigh.

So for next month... what is technically higher but in fact a lower hurdle: 12 days & 4130 words. (Double the results in triple the time.) Hopefully the lower hurdle will be leaped with room to spare. Especially the word part--more than half of last month's were in a single day, after all.
oswulf: (Default)
Let me simply beginning by getting out of the way the entirely unjustified and indulgent observation that it's all downhill from here. Pathetic whining about "what have I accomplished? Do I really expect to accomplish anything?" is just so much useless blather and really needs to be swept aside. From me I mean. If someone else is feeling that way I am far more inclined to be lenient and supportive. :)

At any rate, I said I need to set goals and commit to a schedule and yesterday is as good a time as any. Of course, it isn't yesterday anymore so today will have to do.

I'd like to declare an intention to write for a full uninterrupted hour every day. But in the interest of starting with low bars and building up early successes let's call the official goal a 50% success rate for the remainder of the month of writing 'something' on a given day (and 50% would be 6 days). 'Something' does not mean pulling out paper and writing "fish" and it does not mean writing speeches for my political game, but it does mean any writing on any story no matter how pathetic or pointless. And then I don't know, maybe double whatever I do in July and make that the goal for August. :)

There. I still haven't done anything. But I've decided to do something. And maybe that will have to be enough.
oswulf: (Default)
So Owlmoose has so utterly had the right idea for so long and I don't know why I have failed to emulate the wisdom.

I ought to post some sort of monthly accountability. Maybe... quantity of writing, maybe shoot for daily hour of uninterrupted pure creative output and track success rate with that.

So... this is a thing I should do.
oswulf: (Default)
"You worry too much, peck," says Madmartigan in Willow.

I do worry too much. But this comes up by way of.. I've been world-building, developing plot and character and elaborate intricacies of a world for a story and now I find myself at the precipice and... not particularly writing much. Slogging through, as it were.

It's just sort of striking me at the moment that I think a portion of my difficulty rests in the intersection of interest and importance. Anton Checkov's character Trigoran is himself a writer and opines that as a writer he feels it is his duty to write about "life and science and the rights of man" even if it doesn't interest him and whines about this in depth through a monologue.

I think I may have a tendency to find the interest and energy to write when I can be flippant and silly with the narrative, but then feel as if the work is just a self-indulgant romp whereas I want to write something "real" so must be set aside for more "grown-up" projects, but that "real" writing doesn't tend to capture my muse so thoroughly and peters out. Of course, I specifically worked to design this story to be precisely the thing to capture my muse. I decided that characters I want to write about were the key and began with the characters, developing setting and plot from there outward. And yet... stumbling out of the gate.

The solution, of course, is to stop worrying so much and just follow my muse.

Meanwhile, though, I toss now into the ether the beginning I managed to cobble together yesterday:
The shadow of Mount Nomett crept along the ground, enveloping greater and greater swaths of land like water under the inexorable force of a rising tide. As more and more of the sun slipped behind the lone geographical giant along the skyline. The shadow flowed forward, eerie yet commonplace, as it found its’ way to the doorstep of The Tipsy Priest and began to make its’ way slowly across the building.

The building had been in the Priest family since the founding of Ellegeia, but it had most assuredly not spent much of its’ life as a tavern, tipsy or otherwise. As was not uncommon in frontier lands colonized after Elven armies had fallen back, Ellegeia played host to strong representatives of both the Verrue and Aquan churches. Hezekiah Priest had stood very much at the forefront of the Verrues, investing his family fortune in building the church’s presence in Ellegeia, investing his life in keeping it vibrant.

Victor Priest had always kept his grandfather’s faith, but never with near the same passion and fervor. Once the church had moved to a larger building it only made sense to utilize it for his own profession even as his grandfather had. Thus was born The Tipsy Priest and thus was this particular place of business in this particular location and right there for the newcomer to stumble across.

She was not so remarkable visually, not in any readily quantifiable way. Nevertheless, Victor noticed her immediately as she entered. The shadow bisected her, shrouding her right side even as the light of the setting sun glistened off of her short, raven-black hair, almost forming a halo around the left side of her head. She walked with a regal precision, Victor thought, as she made her way straight toward the bar.
and we'll have to see whether I end up pushing that narrative forward or just abandoning it to explore Alexandria Everly's madcap adventures sideways through time or inconsistent machinations of the vampires of Tropesylvania.

And actually, looking at that again--way too much heavy-handed exposition, way to little things actually happening. grr.

oswulf: (Default)
Cheering crowds! Fanfare! Sturm and drang! Celebrations and spectacle abounding to accompany the emergence of this, my innaugural post!

Yeah, we don't have any of that.

Just some generic collection of nigh meaningless words hoisted outwards into the electronic ether, attended by no real purpose (although after 'nigh meaningless' this is perhaps redundant). But what a perfect match, an empty post going out to be read by the nonexistant denizens of an empty friendslist, the residents of an as-yet unpopulated world.

So why am I here in the first place? I want to write. I want to write and yet I find my inner procrastinator stronger than my muse. So it is my hope that I will somehow insinuate myself into a circle of friends who inspire and drive me to write--so often I have more luck getting things done when I feel as if I have a responsibility to accomplish them, as if someone is relying on me--someone beyond just me. Perhaps this is not the best context for that but... so be it.

All of which begs the question--why is this a journal post and not my profile?


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January 2016

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