Wednesday, 18 May 2016

Meta post

All I want to write about is the passage of time, the constancy of the slipping away of life, the underwhelming monotony of adulthood wearing thin the memories of whimsy.

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.