Oh, how I have had the most wonderful dream!

Within a dream I dreamt last night, the novel was finished, it was done, in full completion. It was a beautiful thing, the words were all right, the pages flowed like the sands of dunes, swiftly and with purpose. I wrote it all by hand, every word and every period, every sketch and photo.
Then, as I finished the final word, on the final page, of the final book. I sighed in relief and closed it, then placed it by its siblings, upon the shelf...
of Lucien's Library Of Never Wrote Books.
Will it be there forever, only in my head? Or will it, someday be taken from those endless shelfs of books no one ever wrote, and placed within the waking realm?

I need to know:

Alright, I know no one is reading this blog, or could care less about it, however, in the off chance that you have stumbled across this and would like to answer, I would like to hear it.

I have a question to all of you writers out there and I mean writers who do it for a living, or are trying to do it for a living. The question is:
Do you hate your own work as much as I hate my own? I know, like most art, most artist hate their own work, even after it is finished, but I never knew I would feel sick looking at my own writing. But I do, and that is the problem.
Do I feel sick because I know it is terrible? Is it because it drains so much of my mental energy that I just can't look at it? I don't know, but all I do know is every time I go to write, I want to cut myself, or throw my self into traffic, and I mean the High School traffic, you know? The good stuff.
It drives me nuts, though, knowing that the only thing I can do in this world, that makes me money (aside from something illegal) I hate doing, and the one thing I swore to myself when I was young, I would not do anything that made me feel like crap, for a living. But I have this strange relationship with writing.
When I do write and it comes out good, or well, or even just "okay" I totally feel a high, akin to sex, or the feeling I used to get on Xmas Eve. The problem is, getting to that point.

Anyway, if anyone ever reads this and feels like elaborating on your own writing style, please, feel free to share here! I just want to know its not just me.

Whenever I think my life is starting to suck...

I watch this video and tell myself, "At least I am not this cat! HA! PWNED!"  

Then I laugh and then laugh some more.

I feel compelled to post.

Well, my co-writer just posted a screaming fit about writing being hard... and I FULLY AGREE.

I have been considering this problem at great lengths, as to why, something as seemingness as pulling words out of your head and smushing them onto a page, should be so difficult, and I have reached a few conclusions...

Writing is, indeed, an art form.  If you dun nots so guds in teh be wazs ovs ritings uses iz nuts guds at all.  Or even if you chose simple words that look good but don't add all the right punctuation to the sentence causing the reader a very difficult time in deciphering what you have written, you aren't creating something that is easy, and in some ways, beautiful to look at.  When you write, regardless of the inlet and outlet, you have to produce something that is easy to read, easy to understand, and conveys your message, whether it be a story about a dragon, or instruction on how to repair a car.  This might seem easy, at first, but once you have slogged yourself into a deep, meaning project, it becomes quite taxing on your perspicuity.  That sentence, for example, took me about two minutes to get correct.  That one took about two seconds.  See the difference?

Writing is like painting a picture when you have nothing.  You have an idea, but first you must make the canvas, the paints, even the brush.

I admit, painting is much different then writing, but imagine if you had to create the stand of all your paints, then the paint brushes, then the canvas, then the stand for the canvas to sit on, then the water to clean the brushes, and then finally, you could paint... but if you ever ran out of a color, you had to make more....

What me and my co-author are experiencing is that part, right there.  We took the time to make the canvas, the brushes, and all the paint... but then we ran out of a few colors... so we had to stop painting, and make those colors... the only problem is, by the time we finished doing that... we forgot what we were painting... So now we start again, from the middle of the beginning.

The easy summery of why writing something like a novel, or a professional body of work, is so difficult is because you are creating an entire world... This world has rules and laws, like our own, some of which will bend and some of which will brake.  Inside this world, you have people and things, doing stuff with each other, all for different reasons, and those reasons are your story.  You have to explain why those people are, what those things are, and why those people care about those things and why those things are so important... See, it gets confusing, and difficult to remember.

I guess what I am saying in my sleep-deprived state is:

Writing is like any other art... if you look at your canvas and feel the need to vomit, or do massive amounts of drugs, then that time is not the time to be painting.  The same goes for writing... if you want to hurt yourself when you look down at that blank page of paper, then everything you write will be garbage, simply because, your mind is attempting to get away from it, to stop doing it, or simply forget about it.  And as we all know from High School... if you mind doesn't want to do it, it will find a way not too, regardless of the consequence.

Now I would like to believe that when we get published, this problem will be a bit easier to deal with, if for no other reason because I will have the gratification of saying I am now published, plus the support of all those helping me to publish my work... but for now, all I have is my dreams and delusions... and they are, unfortunately, becoming one-in-the-same.

I HAVE IT! I AM GENIUS!

So, I am sitting here, rewriting the novel, and something occurred to me, something of an epiphany, a complete life changing revelation; an occurrence of such proportions the heavens themselves must weep!

This revelation is in relation to the concept of The Three Fates.  So many people in this world proclaim, "Fate be a harsh mistress."  Or for the more profane, "Fates a bitch."

I now know why!

Three woman and three menstrual cycles happening at once.  Now, please, don't mistake this as some insult; I have a logical reasoning behind this:

Let's face it, women on their period do suffer from increased hormones which can inhibit some rationality.  In Ancient Greece some believed it was a form of Witchcraft, or curse.  So it is not hard to venture the idea that those who created the concept of the Fates understood how they were going to be viewed (vindictive, omnipotent, generally smug) and at times seemingly chaotic.  They also knew they would be viewed as powerful and beautiful and a type of mother-figure.

Thus, the natural conclusion came: They should be woman, not because woman are chaotic and crazy... no, quit to the contrary.  They represent love and affection, giving us what we deserve right at the time we deserve it.  However, at the times we curse them for screwing something up... on those days it seems every single person on the planet is having a horrid day... just perhaps it is "that time of the month" for them.

Now, this offers an interesting concept... if The Fates do, in fact, have a menstrual cycle, then two things must be true:

1) They can give birth;

2) They age.  The menstrual cycle concludes itself with menopause, which means any living creature with a cycle, will also undergo menopause, then, as all things... die.

What happens if The Fates die?

My writers quote:

"Everything that is, was, and never can be... this is the landscape for writing."  -- Tom (David) A. Gordon

Recipe for writing a novel.

1 cup of music;

2 tons of meat and flesh, congealed into the form of humans;

10 pounds of brain matter, tenderized;

1 car load of night time;

a full moon;

an bakers dozen of sleep depravation;

1 laptop;

a "fire hazard" worth of candles;

and sode-pop;

Insert the two tons of human flesh blobs into the the music, mixed with the bakers dozen of sleep depravation and the full moon.  Bake for 2 to 3 hours, then insert candles, laptop, and a night I won't soon forget (not in a sexual way but an awesome, 'OMG!' kind of way.)

Result; Awesome.

For once, in a very, very, VERY, long time, I am happy again.  But, always is it tainted with what I am, who I am, and what I have done.