I've been thinking about this for a very long time. Many years. I suppose that's really not that long, in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like a long time to me.
I read a lot, I always have. In recent years I've been reading less than I once did, but every so often I get back into the habit, especially when a new book comes out (or I finally learn of a book that has been out) that interests me.
I started reading Babel, by R. F. Kuang a couple of days ago and I've been loving it. I read Book I and found it contained everything I love about fiction. There was whimsy, passion, intrigue, but also depth, politics, and social commentary. I love books that talk (and criticize) the way things are.
Still, as I read it I just couldn't shake the drive to write something myself. It's not that I have that much to say, not really, though I do have some things I think are worth reading, but it's more that I love the written form so much that I feel a need to contribute to it. I feel the need to write something because otherwise it's like I took without giving back, I read without writing. I know this is silly, totally and utterly silly, but I can't help it.
I have story ideas, some of which I've tried to put to paper (pixel), but I always end up dropping the undertaking before anything gets going. The worst part of this is that I know I need to write to get better, but writing is so hard I find it almost impossible to force myself to push through my painful mediocrity to reach the promised shangri-la of tolerable prose.
At the end of the day, I manage to convince myself there will be other people that see the world the same way I do, or at least close enough that the differences are negligible, and they can be the one to write what I want to. That's terrible, that's such a terrible way to think, even as I write this I see how terrible it is but the notion has dug itself a very comfortable home in my mind. Is this what Orwell meant when he spoke of double-think? The conviction that something is wrong and yet the knowledge that it is right? Maybe I'm stupid. Or sick. Both are equally bad.
Today was a decent day, I didn't really do much. I watched a livestream, as I usually do, had a mediocre lunch, ate a pack of cookies, drank enough water to drown a small child, and did some work. I should've done more work, but I have time, and time lets me push things back, and back, and back, until I don't have any more time.
There was a clock in the game the streamer was playing, but she could move the hands at will.
The back tire of my bike was deflated, somehow. I'm not sure if there's a hole or not.
One story idea I've been itching to get out is kinda like Groundhog Day meets Love is War. A guy is forced to relive the same day until he manages to get a girl to fall in love with him. The twist is that the girl is already in love with him and she simply refuses to admit it, just as he refuses to admit he's in love with her. It's not a fantasy setting, but I always imagine lots of fantasy elements... I'm not sure if the guy is going insane or what, but I love the idea of him seeing the world as very magical. The girl has a witch hat and casts spells. They don't really work, but he feels like they work. It's comedic, whimsical, I love that. Eventually, he just confesses to the girl, desperate, and she decides to go on a date with him. The loop breaks.
I don't know, I think it could be really cool. I suppose what really makes or breaks a story, especially a romantic comedy, are the small things. The secondary characters, the tiny interactions, the small words and little sentences, the shrugs and the sighs, so delineating an idea has no merit whatsoever. I have to write it.
Whatever.
The day isn't over just yet, I might write a bit. Or not. I'll think about it. I will read though, of that I'm pretty sure. A couple chapters at least. I'm really loving Babel.
I've been listening to Opus, by Ryuichi Sakamoto. It's really good. Recommended.