Wanderer
I've lost track of my story.
With half hand-written on college-ruled notepaper and half in a file on my laptop, I have no idea what my word count is, how many pages I have, or even the number of chapters. I'm jumping from plot point to plot point, with nothing in between, and no idea how to get to the ending I so crave.
The final scene is poetry, a vision in my mind, but the build-up that is supposed to make it powerful is like looking at a hazy kaleideoscope. Ick.
I want to blame my characters, for not behaving as they ought. I REALLY want to blame the world - MY world - that I've wandered in so long, for betraying me when I need its magic most. It feels dead. And that hurts. Because in the end, I know I have only one that I can blame. The magic has not failed me.
I have failed the magic.
But it can't end like this, I know. I'll begin again in the morning, and things will look a little brighter. In the meantime, school writing can suck at what remains of my soul.
With half hand-written on college-ruled notepaper and half in a file on my laptop, I have no idea what my word count is, how many pages I have, or even the number of chapters. I'm jumping from plot point to plot point, with nothing in between, and no idea how to get to the ending I so crave.
The final scene is poetry, a vision in my mind, but the build-up that is supposed to make it powerful is like looking at a hazy kaleideoscope. Ick.
I want to blame my characters, for not behaving as they ought. I REALLY want to blame the world - MY world - that I've wandered in so long, for betraying me when I need its magic most. It feels dead. And that hurts. Because in the end, I know I have only one that I can blame. The magic has not failed me.
I have failed the magic.
But it can't end like this, I know. I'll begin again in the morning, and things will look a little brighter. In the meantime, school writing can suck at what remains of my soul.
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