Communication

What most of you probably want to hear about is what I’m writing.

But what I’m writing has to stay covered. As soon as I let it out, it hardens.

Not to be vague, when I poke and poke at an idea, spinning something out, writing a scene, drawing a thread, etc., it stays ‘soft’ in my head. Oh, Random might do this. Hector should say that. Elegy sticks her nose around here. But they might not, and there’s no mental cost to expanding, exploring, or smushing.

But the second I tell someone any of that, the story ideas ‘harden.’ Now someone else knows I was thinking Random should do this or Mara that. Since most of my ideas are just play for me, they don’t go anywhere, and they don’t harden into things. If they do, they get moved about a little, which is more difficult if the idea already has some form. I like my little forms. I don’t like manipulating them excessively.

So, like dough in the fridge, I keep my plot nibbits and threads in a box in my machine, where they bubble, blorp, and may do something. I actually tried doing it the other way, but that didn’t work. All writing crashed to a halt.

DUDaD

The DnD group is meeting in the lobby outside my lab.

Keep the faith alive, kids.

Strongest thumbs up.

Needs

Happiness is wrenches. A ton of wrenches. When life gets you down and you’re in a dark place, you need wrenches. Ten, twenty, thirty pounds of wrenches.

What really drives me on is when the wrenches are unlabeled, of varying sizes, and fill several drawers of my toolbox like a twisted mass of metal. None of the wrenches should or do follow form factors, so every wrench organizer is mostly unfilled. What’s more, when a wrench breaks due to wrenching, it’s impossible to get a wrench of the same size as the ones before, splitting the collected tangle of indiscriminate wrenches into an incomprehensible mess.

This is what I live for. Wrenches, and the absolute impossibility of keeping them organized, drive me on through troubles and struggles. The fact that each manufacturer puts the size someplace different, so I can’t ascertain the correct wrench without pawing through the drawer like a dog burying a bone in carpet, is the core of my soul.

In totally unrelated news, I’m rage-ficcing.