I've rewritten the opening sentence of this entry three times, not counting this attempt. This one survives the blessed (cursed?) backspace button because it's late and I'm waaaaay too frustrated to think of anything even mildly witty. And yet here I go again. Typing out words at speeds comparable to the rate that I'm skipping through my impoverished iTunes playlist because Zamzar has left the building, and I'm a little bored of all the songs that aren't 'Dovahkiin'.
Hence the irony.
(That I'm writing so much, not that I'm listening to the Skyrim soundtrack. Because FYI, it's AMAZING.)
Its befuddling. Confounding. Baffling. Puzzling! Err... stupefying?
...DISCOMBOBULATING!
(Yes, I did just pull out the thesaurus. But folks, it would seem that I have found my word of the week.)
But most of all, frustrating.
I sometimes despair that writing doesn't come to me as easily as it should. And when I say 'as easily as it should", I obviously mean "published by 15."And then I get a grip on myself, push the deadline back to 'published by 25' (fingers, and toes while we're at it, crossed) and wonder what is it I'm missing, y'know? Like... where's my theatrical catalyst? My 'event precipitator'? Batman had his parents gunned down, Spider-man had Uncle Ben gunned down, Superman had his planet... uh... exploded. Not suggesting that I want to don spandex and fight crime, obviously. Or that anyone should off my parents. Just... yknow.
Paolini quit school at 15 or something shit like that. Ripped off bits and pieces that I shall not point out from a beloved movie that I shall not name (unless you make me, go on, I DARE YOU) and STILL managed to sit pretty on not one, but FOUR best sellers. It's not even funny. I actually LOVE the first one for all its afore mentioned thievery.
And I'm stuck at university. Having churned out a measly 11 chapters in nigh over a year.
I hope I'm just lazy. Because the alternatives would be a) not talented enough and b)... I cant think of anything scarier than not talented enough. And that I refuse to believe.
Maybe I just need a change of scene. Writing fantasy can be a major brain drain... and this offer from Cracked is intriguing... and pretty tempting. They'd pay to have people churn out sarcasm loaded articles about pretty much anything as long as it's smart enough, and funny enough.
I could do that.
And it pays! Not superbly I'd imagine, but it pays. Anything to distract me from the harsh reality of the working world crashing down on my yet unprepared 20-year old shoulders that props up a brain still in denial that she is NEVER going to get that offer letter from Hogwarts, and that she should really give up the dream that she's going to wake up with the ability to move shit with her mind.
Where's Neverland when you need it eh?
While we're on that poorly thought-out segue (spelt that way, pronounced seg-way. Who knew?) I start work on Monday. Yup. Actual legal-ass work. That pays, yes. And I'm trying to get excited for it beyond the fact that I have an excuse to buy that snazzy blazer from Topshop that I've been eyeing forever, but it's HARD. Mostly because one thing that I've always promised myself is that I will never plant my butt behind a desk in an office cubicle with just enough space for no one to notice when I eventually end my suffering by strangling myself with the standard office telephone wire. And yet, if this degree didn't sign my ideal future's death warrant, this internship might.
I can't even say I hope that it proves me wrong... in the fear that I might be lulled into a false sense of 'this isn't so bad'. So said the sarlaac to its prey, right? If sarlaacs could say anything anyway. I dunno. I want to enjoy it... but yknow. I don't want to sell my soul to the suits either. Its confusing.
Oh and by the way, the irony meter has just hit approximately 650 words.
I think it's time to duck out, stage left. Ciao bella.
nk.
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