Wednesday, October 11, 2006

But it’s the same sun that breaks through the same curtains from number 94 and who can blame me for being confused?

A friend of mine, also a writer, only a successful one, once told me, "I feel like every story I'm working on at the present moment is the best thing that I've ever written." (not verbatim)

I feel the same way, sometimes. Only, I feel I take it a step too far when I look at past prosey things and I think, well this is just crap.

I feel like my mind is working faster than I can keep up and I'm just really lost in the process of trying to make every little piece a strong, lovely little piece of butterscotch.

Currently, I've taken on a new video project. This one requires me to catalogue over 200 photos and use the text in them to write a story and then turn that story into a movie. It's going to take a long time. But it works, because it is requiring me to slow down.

Slow down.

Here is a blurb from a writing exercise I did for a class. I may turn it into something, eventually. What's holding me back is that the piece, when it's a whole piece, is really personal. Yikes.

I keep the keys from the old place, number 727. Little fragments of an old home. I could stop by any time I want, they didn’t change the locks. One day, you’ll ring my doorbell, the one that corresponds to #3 and on your way out I just might give you a parting gift. A small key that used to be my way to get home. One day, you may be walking an unfamiliar neighborhood and you may find, in the street, a small gold key. Pick it up and put it in your pocket. One day, it may take you home.


A while ago, I really dug David Ivar Herman Dune.
And then I forgot all about him.
And now I love him again.

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