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Slipped off into The Zone for many hours last night while hammering away at a climactic scene near the end of Part I in the Work In Progress.
The Zone is a kind of oneness with the act of creation that can best be likened to a benign psychotic episode. You climb so far inside what you're creating that all your critical faculties disappear. Your brain is tracking imaginary events the same way it tracks real (ha, ha, ha!) events! It's wild. It's fun!
But you have no idea whether what you're writing is good or bad.
And it's a kind of mania, so it's physically unhealthy. When you fly that near the sun, your wings can get burned. Last night, for example, I didn't fall asleep till 1 a.m., but I still got up at 6—it's almost impossible for me to sleep in—so I'm feeling quite brain dead right now.
And I still haven't yet dared sneak a peek at what I wrote last night: Neal's rescue of Grazia just before she's about to bewaterboarded baptized by spooky apocalypse cult. What if it's terrible, overly melodramatic drivel? It very easily could be.
###
Plus, we're heading into the fifth consecutive day of grey, impenetrable sky and blank white snow. A grey and white world is hard on the eyes. No doubt, that's compounding my addled, sleep-deprived mind set. Right now in this present moment, there's barely anything that's happened to me in my everyday-a-little-bit-longer life that I don't regret in some way. I line my pillows with regret!
My financial situation is in flux. Schlock isn't giving me the hours I want, and the current Remuneration client stopped communicating with me after making the current Remunerative assignment, leading me to wonder whether this isn't some kind of augury of how they're gonna react when I present my invoice. Shitty behavior! Do I ignore it & keep on working, figuring: Of course, they'll pay me! Or do I cut bait now and keep the retainer?
The Patrizia-torium is an utter mess.
And I'm living in a geographic location I dislike, where I have no friends to commune with or even activity partners to hang out with casually. I have plenty of friends, of course, with whom I communicate through phone calls, texts, & email & at some point during each and every one of those phone calls, texts, & emails, both parties invariably lament: I wish we lived closer...
But the only reason I'm not dying of loneliness is that I'm pathologically self-involved, and thus can survive for looooong periods of time entertaining myself.
Maybe that's all resilience really is: a pathological level of self-involvement.
###
I miss Brian.
The fact that he was so supremely self-confident in his choices, and that one of his choices was to love me, made him a grounding force.
Without him, I feel neither grounded nor lovable.
The Zone is a kind of oneness with the act of creation that can best be likened to a benign psychotic episode. You climb so far inside what you're creating that all your critical faculties disappear. Your brain is tracking imaginary events the same way it tracks real (ha, ha, ha!) events! It's wild. It's fun!
But you have no idea whether what you're writing is good or bad.
And it's a kind of mania, so it's physically unhealthy. When you fly that near the sun, your wings can get burned. Last night, for example, I didn't fall asleep till 1 a.m., but I still got up at 6—it's almost impossible for me to sleep in—so I'm feeling quite brain dead right now.
And I still haven't yet dared sneak a peek at what I wrote last night: Neal's rescue of Grazia just before she's about to be
###
Plus, we're heading into the fifth consecutive day of grey, impenetrable sky and blank white snow. A grey and white world is hard on the eyes. No doubt, that's compounding my addled, sleep-deprived mind set. Right now in this present moment, there's barely anything that's happened to me in my everyday-a-little-bit-longer life that I don't regret in some way. I line my pillows with regret!
My financial situation is in flux. Schlock isn't giving me the hours I want, and the current Remuneration client stopped communicating with me after making the current Remunerative assignment, leading me to wonder whether this isn't some kind of augury of how they're gonna react when I present my invoice. Shitty behavior! Do I ignore it & keep on working, figuring: Of course, they'll pay me! Or do I cut bait now and keep the retainer?
The Patrizia-torium is an utter mess.
And I'm living in a geographic location I dislike, where I have no friends to commune with or even activity partners to hang out with casually. I have plenty of friends, of course, with whom I communicate through phone calls, texts, & email & at some point during each and every one of those phone calls, texts, & emails, both parties invariably lament: I wish we lived closer...
But the only reason I'm not dying of loneliness is that I'm pathologically self-involved, and thus can survive for looooong periods of time entertaining myself.
Maybe that's all resilience really is: a pathological level of self-involvement.
###
I miss Brian.
The fact that he was so supremely self-confident in his choices, and that one of his choices was to love me, made him a grounding force.
Without him, I feel neither grounded nor lovable.
