I have four stories to finish this weekend. Ten hours left before work week starts, and I haven’t written a word on any of these stories. I have managed to come out with a blog entry last night (or in the wee hours of the morning, earlier), but nothing has been done yet on any of the stories I needed to submit. Nothing. I am in a state of panic right now.
I was going through my blog earlier and saw how very infrequent my entries were. I also realized that I’ve held onto one muse the past few months. And he isn’t even aware of it (and I never plan on telling him so). Note to self: I must replace him. He may have awaken things inside me that I never knew existed (and I am grateful for that), but I need another form of inspiration. Someone or someTHING that can inspire me to write and write and write, till writing becomes me, till I no longer need to procrastinate, till I no longer need to prep myself up just to do actual work.
In between my attempts to write, in between other “procrastination activities,” I came across this line from Ian McEwan’s “Atonement” (something I try to read, whenever I get the chance).
These are just snippets. I took out some lines in between (lines whose contexts maybe quite confusing if you haven’t read the scene preceding it)
Here he was referring to an adolescent character Briony, a wannabe playwright/writer.
“A story was direct and simple, allowing nothing to come between herself and her reader–no intermediaries with their private ambitions or incompetence, no pressures of time, no limits on resources. In a story you only had to wish, you only had to write it down and you could have the world…It seemed so obvious now…a story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader’s.”