April 2nd, 2010


Excerpts from my nonfiction writing notebook, Part One

Script Frenzy page count: 6.5 pages

I'm on track, though I do need to write today to stay on track. There probably won't be a musical number today, but tomorrow brings a family event, so I'll probably take the lyrics to that number with me to parody.

Yesterday brought on many shenanigans. My favorite is here to stay, though: unixkcd. YES.

I have a notebook for Script Frenzy to help organize my characters and plot. This isn't entirely true, as it's really the second half of the required writing notebook I kept for the nonfiction class I took the last semester of college.

Keeping this notebook was a struggle, and it was for the reason people don't expect: because I already write regularly and having one more place to write on a separate topic is a pain in the neck. Despite this I did manage to fill half a (small) notebook before the end of the semester, even if a good chunk of it is filled with scribblings when I needed to write something down and this notebook just happened to be on top of Dr. Nbook.

Here are a couple of the interesting bits.

2 Mar 2009

In search of a story

Given my emo kid mood today, writing in class is not the best thing for me to do, given where my thoughts wind up so often these days.

But I remember the creek, the ditch, the woods that weren't all that wooded behind my parents' house. These were my playplaces, the places where I held up green mush with a stick and called it gopher guts to my neighbors, where we climbed over the tree that had fallen over the creek, where we played at the edge of the creek (high or low, depending on the time of year). There's the gap between the building and my grandparents' house where I would hide and write on hot summer afternoons during my early days as a writer. My childhood contains these stories. If only I could remember them now.

[later the same day]

Permission to write? Psh. I don't need permission to write. You'll have to take these pens and keyboards away from me with the force of an army, and let me tell you, these pens are fierce. For writing is my lifeblood, my very mode of self-expression, my therapy, and taking that away is equivalent to watching me curl up and die on the edge of humanity as everyone else moves on with their lives, not thinking of what they need to exist.