It's depressing, frankly.
I need an adventure. I need to be inspired, to feel like dreaming is a valid thing. I need spontaneity, romance, perhaps (although I'm not sure I could ever be so uncharacteristic) a little irresponsibility.
Today I had a jam croissant and a slice of incredibly chocolatey birthday cake (not my birthday) on top of my usual soup, sausage roll and fruit, and I already feel that was too irresponsible.
Heaven forbid I do something actually reckless. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, the sort.
It may be a problem actually - it's very hard to write about recklessness in others when every fibre of your being is screaming "YOU STUPID CHARACTER!" ... It has a tendency to be reflected in the words you use.
On the other hand, it makes me wonder if my ability to write with ease about characters who *care* is saying good things about me. I don't think of myself as a caring person, but others do. Maybe I care, but don't feel it in the way literature and films tell me I should.
My characters are also typically strong, independent and comfortable shouldering responsibility.
And apart from Bub, I think they were all female. Bub is a teddy bear, assigned a male gender by his boy. Could have been a lass, I guess.
This is starting to get a bit meta.
Alicia out.
No comments:
Post a Comment