1. I hate being breathed on. Hate. It. Even by myself. When I sleep, I have to cover my arms or make sure they're out of the way of my breath. It absolutely drives me batty.
2. I cannot stand pictures that hang crooked on the wall. Makes me nuts. I have to fix them. A lady at a gallery recently saved my life -- she told me to use TWO nails in the wall so that the picture never moves. So the last time I hung pictures, I pulled out my level and used two nails. Ahhh....
3. I can't fold construction paper with bare hands. The feel of that fuzzy paper against my fingers makes my skin crawl. Just thinking about it is sending chills up my spine. Ewww....
4. I hate being restrained physically. I absolutely flip out. One guy I knew thought it would be funny to tape my hands behind my back, just to watch me freak out ... until I got away and dialed 9-1-1.
5. I won't eat chocolate with fruit. Ever. Yuck. Strawberries dipped in chocolate? Nope. Chocolate covered cherries. Ick. Don't put nuts in my chocolate, either. Chocolate is perfect just the way it is.
I'm stalled.
The end of Liv moves w-a-a-a-y too fast, and needs a massive overhaul. Add to that some pretty harsh feedback I received (note: I'm not saying undeserved, just harsh) on my beginning, and I can't get past thinking it's all a crock of dog excrement.
This, too, will pass. But until it does, I'm playing with Playing House for a while. I had a great idea regarding that story last night -- which was strange, because I haven't even thought about it for months. I don't want to lose writing momentum, so want to move forward on something.
Oh the joy.
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1 comment:
I’m totally with you until #5. I love chocolate with fruit, in particular, raspberries. Mmmm . . . raspberries.
As for Liv, I really think you hit upon something with her. Now, if the harsh feedback was given with respect for you and the genre, cool. If not, I don’t know. That might be what the crock of dog excrement actually is. I know it’s not Liv.
I made my peace with publishing, or rather, the high potential of not publishing novel-length fiction sometime last year. But what I’m doing isn’t necessarily for anyone else. I wish I could give you some advice, or at least a hug.
I'm playing with Playing House for a while. I had a great idea regarding that story last night -- which was strange, because I haven't even thought about it for months.
This makes perfect sense. I’m a big believer in letting things “compost” for a while. The subconscious is a wonderful thing.
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