literary aspiration
Thursday, May 8th, 2008 11:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanI have been reflecting, with a certain lazy envy, on the fact that three of my friends have published books in the last twelve months. That’s two novels and one political tract.
I think I like the idea of writing a novel more than I do the actual writing. It does not help that I have neither an idea for a plot nor a steady written style. I am also less than sure that I have the stamina to stick at it, should I obtain a plot and concentrate on maintaining a written voice. The thought of clutching a book that is all my own work appeals immensely, even if no-one else buys it. The thought of actually sitting in front of the computer to write it appeals much less.
All that happens when I try to write something more important than a journal entry is that I end up googling my way around the internet and discovering dust bunnies under my desk. My coffee consumption, already high, sky rockets and the pleasure I get from staring into space thinking of tumbleweed and the colour purple expands to fill all available memory. Looking back on it, I find that I can no longer work out how I ever wrote anything for NWO games and even the reality of that is that my written contribution was less than my memory makes it.
I have been amused in a way that I know the author probably won’t be to find that if I google the title of one friend’s novel, I get a couple of hits on Shakespeare and TS Eliot, one on the book itself and innumerable hits on Andromeda, the sci-fi show least admired by the man in question.
Rather than writing anything of value yet again, I find myself contemplating with wonder the nefarious ways and means of the Karma Pixies
I think I like the idea of writing a novel more than I do the actual writing. It does not help that I have neither an idea for a plot nor a steady written style. I am also less than sure that I have the stamina to stick at it, should I obtain a plot and concentrate on maintaining a written voice. The thought of clutching a book that is all my own work appeals immensely, even if no-one else buys it. The thought of actually sitting in front of the computer to write it appeals much less.
All that happens when I try to write something more important than a journal entry is that I end up googling my way around the internet and discovering dust bunnies under my desk. My coffee consumption, already high, sky rockets and the pleasure I get from staring into space thinking of tumbleweed and the colour purple expands to fill all available memory. Looking back on it, I find that I can no longer work out how I ever wrote anything for NWO games and even the reality of that is that my written contribution was less than my memory makes it.
I have been amused in a way that I know the author probably won’t be to find that if I google the title of one friend’s novel, I get a couple of hits on Shakespeare and TS Eliot, one on the book itself and innumerable hits on Andromeda, the sci-fi show least admired by the man in question.
Rather than writing anything of value yet again, I find myself contemplating with wonder the nefarious ways and means of the Karma Pixies