Evenscry’s Weblog

I think that the more you write the more that your brain becomes attuned to the different ideas that flow through your head. I think that is one of the reasons that all the people who seem successful at writing insist that writing every day is very important.
Of course, it changes your mentality. It changes the way that you see the world. I have lines of prose, ideas for stories, character sketches, coming at me as I make my breakfast. I think about how I can turn my dismal love life into a proper and amusing story, or how that friend I have who can make a proper storytelling out of the most miniscule and mundane moment in his life, how he would be the perfect shaman or wizard, or simply the perfect unexpected friend—as he is in real life.
Each of my interactions takes on a new aspect, a new meaning, and I’m never quite sure what to make of those meanings.

I was thinking about Click this morning, how if I only wrote of our daily interactions, and perhaps only lived those interactions that I write, well, it would be easy to imagine falling in love with Click. However, the reality is that he is old enough to be my father. Click and a friend of Click’s from the store, they once told me that they would like to adopt me. Adopt me! I’m nearly 29 years old, and they want me as their daughter. A peculiar joke, but an interaction that I needn’t write about. If I were to leave that story out of the mix, I’m sure that it would be easy to imagine falling in love with Click. We have the loveliest conversations.

Of course, I would never fall in love with Click.
When I think about him, I do wonder what he looked like in his younger days. However, Click is grey. He is the epitome of “grey.” Even his skin has taken on this haggard, sallow quality. I cannot imagine kissing him. I hug him on a regular basis, of course, but kissing Click? I doubt that would be a palatable endeavor.

And it isn’t the graying of his hair, I’ve known young men who have gone grey early, and attractive young men at that. I have thought of them as silver, shining, given that austere color before their time. Click isn’t like that.

This was all an idle tangent, though. I was thinking of it more as one would consider a plot, or a character, or simply a string of words. Normally, I wouldn’t even think about whether or not I would fall in love with Click in an alternate reality. He is just my friend, as many men of his age group over my academic years, and now my bookselling years, had become “just” a friend.

I had to interrupt the book I was reading last night to write a thousand plus words about a house and a young man interested in genetics. It was seen through the eyes of a college-aged girl who met the young man peripherally. It ended up with there being a bit more about the house the young man was living in and less about the young man than I had initially intended.

But, you see, it’s like a sickness, or at least a condition.
I suppose it gets me in the form of songwriting at times, but now its strictly prose.
I’ll wander around the café and get the most bizarre tunes and lyric choices stuck in my head, and there will be nothing I can do about them.
Now I’m getting prose lines stuck into my head with a similar regularity, and it’s like to drive me mad, I tell you.

It’s okay. Tomorrow I’m off again, and will hopefully get more writing done than I did yesterday.

As a side note, I’m reading After You’d Gone by Maggie O’Farrell right now, and I have to say it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. I still have about 170 pages left, and I hope that it doesn’t let me down, but truly…A fantastic read.

Off to serve coffee to the masses, methinks.