That feeling when you have two different book stories developing parallelly in your head, but can’t write either. And that’s on good days. On bad days, there are five of them. Plus-minus.

Me: planning things to do on Saturday, what to watch, what to watch after that, clean while watching, take out the trash, maybe play some DSIII sometime before evening, try to write some more for that story I’ve been focusing on last couple of weeks…

Reality: read a random paragraph of a random book I picked up in the middle of cleaning, get and idea, sit down for 3 hours and write 3000 words for a completely new story I didn’t even see coming.

I have honestly lost count of the ‘new story sketches’ with main characters and setting outlined I have ‘saved for later’ in my Scrivener projects…

The head-hopping pov is turning very quickly into one of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to writing.

(somewhere between the ‘using foreign languages when you can’t do it without mistakes’ and ‘adding rape for the coolness factor’)

I can’t believe how many writers don’t find not okay… I really think it’s nowhere close to okay, when your pov changes from thoughts of one character to another in the same paragraph. Or even in the next paragraph without a clear text break. Bite me.

It never gets old.

The fact that I actually manage to work proofreading and editing (and translating) texts,

while in my everyday life I write ‘vase’ instead of ‘face’ in a sentence and have to read it at least three times to notice.

Yet, I believe what really grinds my gears, and prevents me from leaving this topic alone and not wasting my energy on thinking about it for 2 days already, is that if the situation was the opposite, as in, if the main characters were supposed to be from somewhere from Africa (or say Asia or Middle East), but instead white British actors were hired to play their roles, there would have been 10 times more outrage.

And then thousands of people who never even read the books would also flock to protest and express their outrage once they’d sniff it out, because how dare the tv producers not respect people’s races and cultures.

And I highly doubt the author would have been able to write her ‘proud post’ about how she thinks the cast is just right, and she never even remembered that her own main character had eyes of a specific colour. and that he is ‘right for the role in every way that matters’ (except race, because race doesn’t matter). Because she would just get stoned for that.

…In everyday circumstances, I would be among the first to say that race doesn’t matter. Because, in everyday life, I don’t really care (and, to be honest, my cognitive abilities are failing enough that sometimes I can’t tell Japanese people from foreigners when I’m outside…).

But when we talk about integrity of cultures and world settings… I think every culture and setting should be equally protected and represented as it was historically, or as it was written to be.

favorite typo of the day:

*scene: very serious, a group of men on the verge of violence staring at each other, hands on weapons, nerves ringing with tension, etc.

*** finally faced the man, undressing him quietly but firmly.

(it took me far too long to notice that it doesn’t actually say “addressing”, if I’m being honest…)

… this is probably how weird fanfiction gets born..

When you say ‘curse of the second novel’, many people think about the curse of the second published novel of an author. I, personally, find it much more applicable to the ‘second novel of a series’… It’s harder to find an exception, really.

sometimes I get these moments when I feel like writing might the very only and last thing I have for myself

and in the next moment I hate it, my writing, for it with all my heart

I stopped writing poetry because it feels like vomiting words in a language I don’t myself understand, from somewhere around backside of my frontal lobe.
It confuses me and feels like I’m trying to say something, but can’t hear my own voice, and can’t know what I’m actually saying.
Even more than usual.
And when it just comes out and I can’t stop it, it reminds me of how a cat looks after coughing out some fur. I just stare at it, and don’t know what is it, what to do with it, and why did it even have to come out.

I also hardly ever read poetry for similar reasons.

Another problem I heave with poetry is that when it ‘comes out’ like a fur ball like this:

look at them hungered eyes
dreaming of soft toes
buried in black soil
look at them burdened skies

 it also ends as abruptly as it came out. And with a feeling that there is nothing else where it came from, like I’m straining to hear what comes next but the sound is not there. But that also for some reason I need to keep it.