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Jun. 4th, 2011 11:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelI was listening last night to Chess, in an effort to drown out the chaos of my brain; and amidst the maelstrom, up bubbled memories of college -- 1998, this would have been. Spring, with the restlessness-inducing weather of the SF bay area, and I was in the pit orchestra for the production of Chess
(Each game of chess means there's one less variation left to be played / Each day got through means one or two less mistakes remain to be made)
and I was also in the sf writing class that at that point had become a yearly tradition for me, and I remember having a hell of a crush on the guy playing Anatoly, and he was in the class too -- as was our Florence, whom I didn't realize I was having a crush on also, and at least one other person involved in the production -- but never mind all that --
(This is an all too familiar scene / Hopeless reflections on what might have been / From all sides the incessant and burning question: "Bearing in mind your predicament now -- what you did then -- we're just dying to know, would you do it all again?")
I found myself thinking -- I miss the writing I did back then. And I miss the way I felt about writing: that it was fun and creative and always like a discovery. And I've lost that sort of feeling, I've lost how to enjoy writing. I want to write, still, but I don't, and partly it's the lure of easier things and partly it's that what I get doesn't ever match what's in my head and partly it's that writing is pulling teeth, slow and painful and bloody and I have to rely on other people liking what I write because I so rarely do.
I know whinging about it doesn't help. But still.
(But we go on pretending / Stories like ours / Have happy endings)
(Each game of chess means there's one less variation left to be played / Each day got through means one or two less mistakes remain to be made)
and I was also in the sf writing class that at that point had become a yearly tradition for me, and I remember having a hell of a crush on the guy playing Anatoly, and he was in the class too -- as was our Florence, whom I didn't realize I was having a crush on also, and at least one other person involved in the production -- but never mind all that --
(This is an all too familiar scene / Hopeless reflections on what might have been / From all sides the incessant and burning question: "Bearing in mind your predicament now -- what you did then -- we're just dying to know, would you do it all again?")
I found myself thinking -- I miss the writing I did back then. And I miss the way I felt about writing: that it was fun and creative and always like a discovery. And I've lost that sort of feeling, I've lost how to enjoy writing. I want to write, still, but I don't, and partly it's the lure of easier things and partly it's that what I get doesn't ever match what's in my head and partly it's that writing is pulling teeth, slow and painful and bloody and I have to rely on other people liking what I write because I so rarely do.
I know whinging about it doesn't help. But still.
(But we go on pretending / Stories like ours / Have happy endings)