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there's never any time for sleep
The easier a paper should be, the longer it takes me to write it. No, I don't get it either.
I didn't want to go inside after my second class; the air was cool and smelled like fire and fall and I just couldn't get enough of it, so I walked down by the river and gathered leaves. They're in a bowl now, and scattered on the floor. I kept the window open as long as I could stand it. Let the outside in, as my mother would say.
I love my room, I love that everything about it breathes and echoes me.
So, so tempted to buy books. What does it say about me that I can remember when books cost half as much as they do now? That I'm getting old, no doubt. But damnit I want everything - Louise Gluck and Wendell Berry and Margaret Gibson and Louise Bogan and Phillip Levine and so many others. Why put a price on words? I just want the nice heady way they make me feel.
Another point in fanfic's favor, I suppose, that it's accessible and free, although real genius in fandom is as rare as in the real world. It's there, though, if you look for it.
Anything by Penumbra is a terrific example. I'd gladly give both kidneys to know how it feels to make words do what she does. I mean:
(From Black Hole Season, opening paragraph.) I mean - yes. And if I quoted all the lines, paragraphs, and pages that make my muscles coil in rapturous glee I'd never be done. I want to write like that, but I never will, so I content myself with reading and loving and seeing the world in strange new and wonderful ways.
And other people's words make for fabulous procrastinatory devices, though I wish my own weren't necessary to complete this paper. Sigh.
I didn't want to go inside after my second class; the air was cool and smelled like fire and fall and I just couldn't get enough of it, so I walked down by the river and gathered leaves. They're in a bowl now, and scattered on the floor. I kept the window open as long as I could stand it. Let the outside in, as my mother would say.
I love my room, I love that everything about it breathes and echoes me.
So, so tempted to buy books. What does it say about me that I can remember when books cost half as much as they do now? That I'm getting old, no doubt. But damnit I want everything - Louise Gluck and Wendell Berry and Margaret Gibson and Louise Bogan and Phillip Levine and so many others. Why put a price on words? I just want the nice heady way they make me feel.
Another point in fanfic's favor, I suppose, that it's accessible and free, although real genius in fandom is as rare as in the real world. It's there, though, if you look for it.
Anything by Penumbra is a terrific example. I'd gladly give both kidneys to know how it feels to make words do what she does. I mean:
Nearly eight years of monster-mashing and here you have two people who can still barely look each other in the eye and say 'you're it for me, you're the one'. Love is slow but death is tracer-fast, a missile below the waterline. Love is bled out in its bath like an Aztec virgin bringing up the sun. One more dance with the devil.
(From Black Hole Season, opening paragraph.) I mean - yes. And if I quoted all the lines, paragraphs, and pages that make my muscles coil in rapturous glee I'd never be done. I want to write like that, but I never will, so I content myself with reading and loving and seeing the world in strange new and wonderful ways.
And other people's words make for fabulous procrastinatory devices, though I wish my own weren't necessary to complete this paper. Sigh.