here i struggle between accounting, SCHEMATA, a working paper chewing the back side of my brains, a few milestones to be carved out of the ether, and then it hits me: what i want is not worth diddly!
here i started yesterday with all noble intentions of following all good advice on building a plot and characters for the novel of the month, the 50'000 words or more of sheer madness, quantity pure, and then it hits me! forget all the advice, what works for others, is not now working for me, either i am not that far, or i am wired a bit differently. then when the pain was almost unbearable one of my muses starts laughing at me in some remote corner of my mind or amentia! he has already been good for more than 40'000 words, and i thought i had chewed on it really well, that my ego had swollen its pride and taken an humble seat at the far left corner of the ring; i need to think again. that may have been what i wanted, it is however not what is happening.
the muse was easy to find, thanks to the laughter and seduction memories of that other one who brought me back to where i wanted to be, i now well know who my muse is in this madness of writing a novel in one month, not him, another, the other is the muse. the muse to me is always the one for whom the story gets told. when writing, the muse is the one listening, actively asking me what i mean and where the thread of the story is. the muse is the one who lets me know what the pace is that keeps its attention. the muse is neutral, not passive, asexual, yet sensuous. this is not how i planned it, this is not what i wanted, it does not matter. it shall be as it is.
