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I did not expect, of all things, fucking *Casanova* to trigger the ever-loving fuck out of me.

We watched the David Tennant version tonight at my housewarming party.  It was an awesome party.  And a pretty enjoyable movie.

Right up until the final scene where the character hearing the story from Old!Peter O'Toole!Casanova is watching him die, and lies through her teeth over and over and over about his one true love being on her way to see him after decades of separation.

Except for the name, word for word, it was almost exactly what my sister said to my dying grandmother the last time I saw her.  Which is likely to be the last time I ever will see her.

And it was like a punch to the fucking gut.

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I'm not sure why I'm writing this, too late at night on far too little sleep.  I've been avoiding posting for some time now, for...various reasons.  Hell, not even rl ones.

Part of it is this: I haven't written a single original word in months.

Oh, I have some stories in my head, and I can write them down on a page even, in ways that I never have before, but they're all stories I've known for a long while now, and for one reason or another, haven't written down.  Yet as soon as I reach the boundary of that story, the end of what I know about it, I can't go on anymore.  I'm not tired of it, I even want to know what happens next.

But I've forgotten how to find out.

Perhaps ironically, since I've lost that I've been able to phrase my own thoughts, my own feelings in words that make me blink in surprise to look back on; turns of phrase that I look at in shock later, wondering how I pinned a concept in so few words, simultaneously understandable, and yet more poetic than I've ever quite reached before. 

"...where you miss them so much your jigsaw-puzzle heart skips a beat or two...",

I've known, more or less, that I can turn a phrase, even pretty well.  Perhaps the most telling indication is that some of the obligatory confused-kid middle-school poetry I wrote rather a lot of isn't only salvageable, but somehow, sometimes, even worth saving.

But those streets in my head where I used to walk, where I used to be bombarded with original character after original character, all shouting over one another to tell their stories, have fallen silent.  Even my dreams-usually reliable, if cracky, sources of inspiration-have gradually phased into either a: Doctor Who fanfiction, or b: outright disturbing semi-realistic dreams I can only half-remember, but are much more unsettling for that half-memory.

The first is fun, but unhelpful in writing stories.  The second is terrifying.

I remember sitting bolt upright and scrambling for a pen, babbling in half-coherent sentences to whatever unfortunate soul happened to be around, on fire with a new story waiting to be told.  There's still very little that can compare to that rush, where my semi-illegible babblings coalesce into a coherent story and I see my audience's eyes light up in response to that story, and all I want to do is write until the fire burns itself out.

It's not comfortable, exactly, but it's something I live for.

But I haven't felt it for months.

I had a tiny spark about two months ago, a mere ghost of what usually happens, and it was only grabbing two tropes I'm familiar with and linking them.  I don't believe it's been done before, and it's a lot of fun in its own way, and has its own twists and turns, but...I can't shake the feeling that it's not what's supposed to happen to me.  And besides, I have a cowriter, and while I've chatted plot and themes and characters with him, I have yet to contribute a single damned word.

It's like I can't make art anymore.  And it scares me.

Objectively this probably isn't true.  I have played the piano, after all, and that's music, but...it's been performance only, technical playing, nothing special; so I can read sheet music like I read English.  Big whoop.  I've been playing since I was six.  It's all practice.

I haven't dared touch my harp.  I've never been that good with it but when I'm playing my own, she's sweet enough to compensate for me, even when I'm slowly picking my way through a piece I've only heard.

I'm terrified that if I sit down at her, and try to play something, it won't work, and it'll only be strings vibrating at a certain frequency.  Or-and I know this is horribly superstitious but I can't help it-that her strings will snap beneath my fingers if I even try.

That the silence of what used to be the stories in my head will turn into silence on my harp, and slowly infect everything else until I no longer have anything to say.

Right now, I can still describe what's in my own head, at least.  My words haven't deserted me in that respect.

But I'm starting to feel like Echo.  That the only stories I know how to tell anymore are ones that I've already told, or aren't even mine.

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I have no idea if this poetic form has a name. )


Mar. 5th, 2010 08:30 am
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I know intellectually there are worse things, but lying alone in bed attempting to go to sleep when your roommate's elsewhere and trying and trying not to think about it and then suddenly remembering random shit like how she was always leaving her reading glasses on the counter and you'd have to take them to her and both of you would crack up about it every time is probably the most painful thing I've had to deal with ever.

And there's really nothing to prepare you for it.

I wish I could remember how I dealt when my friend Gina died when I was eleven. But I don't and I don't think it would help.

...aaaaand I have an interview today for an exchange program. Just to make it all fucking perfect.

I feel like the world's gone insubstantial and I could wave my hand through objects or people and walk through walls because nothing's quite there right now, and I have to go to an interview for something I really, really, really want to do because it's the only day the interviewer is in town.



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