Regina

I'm really good about reading my friendslist, and terrible about posting.

Recent things:

-I am married (Valentine's Day)

-I am moving (Friday, still not packed, eep)

-I am sick (head cold, then chest cold, now bronchitis, sinus infection, and ear infection. Everybody sounds like they're talking through water and if the stupid antibiotics and decongestant don't start working soon I will go CRAZY.)

-I am stupid and apparently contracted helium-hand. The result of this is that I am now the local barony's Webminister. I made a website. It's not quite what I would have liked.

-Inkheart is the most amazing series ever and you should all read it. I did not think any book could bring back that beautiful, forlorn longing for the place it describes. I did not think any book would make me love words again. Inkheart did.

(The movie wasn't bad either; good enough to get me to the books, anyway. Brendan Frasier is a perfect Silvertongue, and Paul Bettany was a gorgeous Dustfinger. The movie takes a weird turn in the last half, though. The books are much better.)


That's all the news there is. I'll post pictures of the house as soon as I get the keys.

Love you all!

Not even a plot for this one.

Mars is being colonized. People start dying. There is one guy left alive. I think it should be called either "Man from Mars" or "The Last Martian. I have written this and will write no more:


Keep your suits on, they said, always keep your suits on, even in the huts, even where it's pressurized and temperature-controlled and constantly monitored because you never know when these things might break.

Keep your suits on, because it's not like they've been using this tech on Earth's moon for sixty years without a single recorded incident.
Keep you suits on, because there's water here, and you don't know what things we haven't found. You don't know what lies dormant in the dust.

Keep your suit on, sweat and work and breathe and piss and keep your goddamned suit on, and they did, every day, until the claustrophobic loneliness drives you mad.

And they did, every single day, for nothing more than hope.

If anyone's curious, the tech I was referencing was this. *shrugs* I dunno, it seems kinda cool.

People who write, I need your help.

I'm kind of in limbo on my zombie thing and I'm avoiding my old standard resource for plotting (NaNo boards), so I was wondering if anyone had links to some good sites or comms that deal with plot and character development.

Thanks in advance you guys, and worship the day of my birth have a wonderful Veteran's Day!

Wow, two posts in under a week. Maybe it's to do with being sick.

I know a lot of people on my flist write.

I haven't written a word of prose in a year (more? I'm not sure), and the only poetry is a sad little scribble about rabbits. Everyone is encouraging me to write, but I can't seem to.

It's not like writer's block. I've dealt with that, I know what it's like. It's simply as if... as if words are no longer in me. I can't write because there is nothing there. No stories or words... not even the flashes of pictures that come like a badly edited movie, the origin of most of my ideas.

I thought perhaps that since writing is sort of cathartic for me, that maybe upturns in my life were the cause. Then I realized I still have problems-- I'm still not happy most of the time-- they're just different problems.

Maybe it's having something else to focus on? Most of my time, my energy, my thoughts, are given to the boy. Not a bad thing-- he makes me happy, usually.

I don't even know what I expect from this post-- it's just sheer frustration. I don't let on usually but this hurts so much I could cry. Words are what I do. They're what I am. I could always, always use words, the only thing I ever handled with complete assurance. Even when I was wrong-- with words, I believed myself right. If you listen to my mother's stories about my childhood-- there's nothing interesting before I could talk. Her favorite was when I was about four-- they told me a ditch I was near was dangerous, and I spent the day repeating "dangerous ditch" in all sorts of ways. I have always loved words and sounds and...

Like I said, I don't know what I expect this to do for me. I don't feel any better than when I started. I just needed to say it, and if I said it to anyone irl, they'd say "well, then write."

They don't understand how much it breaks my heart that I can't.