writing

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Got myself thinking about all book-worlds created by other people that are like home, no matter how messed up they are. 
There are good books and then there are homes.

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sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I would actually be able to write down all the stuff that circles in my head if I had the health for it and my mind was clear enough… and what shitload of stuff that would turn out to be. 
But “what ifs” are illogical.

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In other words
it’s the
“push me, push me, I want to taste how it feels to fly, before I hit the ground”
state of mind

I will bind and cover hundreds of pages with my insanity
and make my wings out of them
and next time I need to fly and not hit the ground…
… I will.

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sometimes I just forget to tell myself that I’m crazy, 
when I’m writing this story and struggle with some part and think “I can’t just change this! Because that’s how it happened!“

I also wish I could just see in other writers’ heads, to find out why writing some things feels like making up things any way you want, and writing other things feels like you’re trying very hard to ‘novelise a movie’ from memory (and a very old memory at that)

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Masturbationtory writing… is not writing about masturbation, it’s the act of writing about anything at all that essentially represents an act of mental masturbation to the person doing the writing. If you actually allow yourself to realise it. Or you might not, and continue telling yourself that you’re just writing.

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my brain likes to mis-read and mis-write words a lot
think food and write door
see liked and read killed

… but even I think that mixing up Astrophysics and Aphrodisiacs is a first

my defense is that they do have a lot of same letters, yes.

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I especially liked the stupid ways in which people manage to die.
Like drowning in ankle-deep water or by trying to wash hands in a well.

‘Like’ is the wrong word. But you get what I mean.

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What I like about writing books that are not based on out modern world is the things it makes you look up.
Like history of leather clothing. Or history of underwear. Or history of toilets. Or how oil lamps are made.

Fascinating history facts are fascinating.

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Of course I’m not the only one who is trying to write this book. I’m trying to write it with all of me. With every me that got buried over the years and who’s memories I took so much care to burn every time. It is the only way to do right by them. Do right by me.

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Secretly I’ve always known that my handwriting is so bad because deep inside I’d prefer that no one was able to read the stuff I wrote down.

Is what I think every time a page form an old diary falls out from somewhere.