I suppose it's worth mentioning that I completed The Week of Dreams a couple nights ago. Actually, more than a couple. Maybe...four, I think. Or less. I honestly don't know. Chronology is not one of my strong points.
Anyway, I'm at this point that I call the "post-project crash". I'm finished with writing something, and I don't know what to do afterwards. I mean, yesterday. I was wasting time in myriad ways, and every so often, I thought, "Shouldn't I be writing?" And then I realized, "Oh, yeah, I don't have anything to write." (And then I stalked off to put a giant stuffed squirrel in front of a sleeping relative, who later accused me of throwing it at her. It makes sense in context.)
I have the "Good Doctor" idea that I mentioned in my last post. I also have one that's slowly forming in my mind. I'm called it a "friendship story" (analogous to a love story - inherently better, in my mind, although this is coming from someone who doesn't understand the concept of love as everyone else does and who thinks friendship is one of the coolest things ever). It involves two people who meet each other because they both decide to do something they hate on the same day (love meetings like that), and one of them becomes fascinated with the other, and they're drawn into each other's family conflicts (mostly with one of them being constantly at odds with his sociopath brother and then losing his relationship with his "something else" brother). Oh, and it involves architecture. As in, they both go and enjoy buildings together, because buildings are awesome. It probably makes more sense than that makes it sound.
I also remembered that there was something I semi-promised to say in the last post, so I'll say it now. I'm not entirely sure what motivates writers anymore - I know that in the 20th century and amongst a lot of young writers, you've got this intangible something called "angst". Today's young writers are much more likely to use that word than the 20th century writers (unless they're Nietzsche or something of that ilk), but the idea still remains. There's some kind of sad situation that happened and stays with them or maybe persists into their life currently (or, you know, whatever the tense may be - again, chronology's not my strong point). It's an anxious, uncertain, sad, fearful kind of thing, and whatever the reason, they feel it and are often compelled to turn their misery into something beautiful. Or not beautiful. At any rate, they do something with it, and in the particular cases I'm talking about, they turn it into writing.
Now, I have experienced this angst thing in the past. Most of the time, I connected it to something directly observable or nameable (such as social isolation), but usually I just blamed it on what was then believed to be depression. Which makes sense, but not necessarily to the extremes that I carried it. By the way, that sentence proves that I'm in a dangerous position, because now, I apparently believe that depressives can take their feelings too far. Usually, I'm sympathetic towards the depressive people I encounter, but I'm directing a negative judgment onto at least one such person - granted, only myself - but still. I almost think this is making me dangerous in some way.
What I mean to say is that I used to have severe "angst issues" in the past, but hopefully they won't happen again (this is why we see therapists, take medication, and find fiction that correlates all too directly to our own situations so we can obsess over and make references to it so people can understand us). Angst, while not fun to experience in real life, is a good source of material for writers, so long as you know how to use it correctly. F. Scott Fitzgerald knew how to use it correctly. Vincent van Gogh knew how to use it correctly (well, as far as his actual art was concerned). Perhaps even Jeff Kinney knows how to use it correctly. (For those who don't know, Jeff Kinney is the guy who writes Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I'm referring to childhood/adolescent angst that the guy obviously carries with him. I don't know why I put his name here, other than to be absurd.)
I really don't see myself as having much angst anymore. I really don't. I have aversions to separations with people (separations of the permanent kind) and this sort of budding fear of developing friendships, sort of in the way that you're afraid of interacting with people you hate - for some people, it's extremely terrible, but for all of us, it's incredibly inevitable. But apart from that metaphor, I really don't see too many upsetting things for me to base my writings on.
And that's when I have to really think about it. When I can't think of things that truly bother me about my life, I have to think about things I just don't like. Such as my memory. I really don't think my memory is my friend. Imagine someone you, for whatever reason, you frequently hand your wallet to. Maybe you need someone to look after it while you shower or something. You used to be able to trust this person, and they're still mostly trustworthy, but every so often, you find a few dollars missing from your wallet. You're sure it's them, but when you actually ask them about it, they say nothing. You wish you could give your wallet to a more reliable person, but there's literally no one else you can give your wallet to, and you literally always have to let this person hold it. It's not that bad - I mean, it's only a couple dollars here and there, and sometimes you don't even notice it until you go out to buy something - but it's still upsetting.
Now, that relationship with my memory is perfect fodder for writing. In fact, I do have some pieces involving memory. And remember what I said earlier, about how my losing sympathy for people with depression could be dangerous? There's so much story fodder there. Except I just don't know to what to do with it. Maybe I'm not a skilled enough writer (which makes total sense, by the way - I really don't think I'm amazingly skilled, I just like to brag and say I am). Maybe I just think it's weird. But I don't know.
This is the part where I stare at the screen, hoping I could think of some witty, intelligent ending to this but being unable to do so. Funny thing, about me. When it comes to things like this, it's impossible to find endings.
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