Sick and tired
Jan. 13th, 2007 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI haven't been well these last few days, and I also haven't been working much: just picking my way through the play, making vague gestures at a redraft, feeling really fed up with the whole process and deeply uncommitted to it.
I thought it was because I was sick, because I couldn't possibly be bored, could I? With my own work? No, never...
And I'm not, not really. I think what it is, though, I am screamingly bored - sick and tired, as my mother would say - of doing rewrites. In the last couple of months, I've written two short stories and a proposal; apart from that, it's been endless proofs & edits, and I've just had enough. I want to throw real words at the screen again, and I can't, because this has to be done; and then when it is done, y'know what? There's a whole novel waiting for a rewrite, and it's been waiting too long already. Sigh, sob...
Also, of course, I'm so fed up with it all, I'm really not doing a good job on the play here. I should be picking it apart, not picking at it. I'm not good at this anyway, remaking a piece substantially; I can polish for ever, but my whole process is so linear (I start at the beginning, and write till I get to the end, and that's always how I conceive the work, from page to page, moment to moment), my only sense of structure is a rope. This leads to that leads to that. Which makes it hard to reshape. Especially through dialogue, which is the definition of flow.
So gah, basically. I sit here and fiddle, to no great effect. I'd give it up and go cook something, if I didn't feel so grot. I broke a full bottle of nuoc mam at lunchtime, trying to make pho. It's been haunting me all day...
I thought it was because I was sick, because I couldn't possibly be bored, could I? With my own work? No, never...
And I'm not, not really. I think what it is, though, I am screamingly bored - sick and tired, as my mother would say - of doing rewrites. In the last couple of months, I've written two short stories and a proposal; apart from that, it's been endless proofs & edits, and I've just had enough. I want to throw real words at the screen again, and I can't, because this has to be done; and then when it is done, y'know what? There's a whole novel waiting for a rewrite, and it's been waiting too long already. Sigh, sob...
Also, of course, I'm so fed up with it all, I'm really not doing a good job on the play here. I should be picking it apart, not picking at it. I'm not good at this anyway, remaking a piece substantially; I can polish for ever, but my whole process is so linear (I start at the beginning, and write till I get to the end, and that's always how I conceive the work, from page to page, moment to moment), my only sense of structure is a rope. This leads to that leads to that. Which makes it hard to reshape. Especially through dialogue, which is the definition of flow.
So gah, basically. I sit here and fiddle, to no great effect. I'd give it up and go cook something, if I didn't feel so grot. I broke a full bottle of nuoc mam at lunchtime, trying to make pho. It's been haunting me all day...