Okay, I know it's been ages since I last wrote something here, which always makes my brain want to spontaneously combust, but I don't want to just write some utter tripe or nonsense just for the sake of having something to update, which is another item on the list of things I go on-and-on about without ever seeming to shut up. The complaining about wanting to write a new journal entry but not wanting to write filler or something or whatever. It's all regurgitated crap of one kind or another, isn't it?
Anyway, works been hard. Hours have been long. Blah blah. Nothing to see. Move along.
Writing of the POS no effort at all just keep your hand in adaptation of a Shakespeare play has been averaging between slow and stop. Blah blah. Been there. Heard that. Move along.
The most amusing thing I've been doing is tweeting my progress on—well—Twitter. Last thing I do at the end of a writing jag is run a word count and post that online, and rather than go through all the hard work of updating my own website, I post this wondrous new information on Twitter. Mostly just to have something to post on Twitter so that account doesn't simply lie there like a dead fish. Which isn't the amusing part.
The amusing part is the little comments I include with the word count update since I seem to have a very low opinion of my own writing abilities. My assessment of my own work tends to be along the lines of: (1) oh, my god, this is crap. (2) this is terrible. (3) what was I thinking? (4) people are either going to love this or hate this, and I have no idea which.
Yeah, comments like that, which strike me as hysterically funny thinking back over them. Not that they are intended to be funny when I write them. I'm quite sincere, and yet, for some unfathomable reason, none of these heartfelt thoughts or feelings encourage me to stop. You know, if I hate what I'm doing so much, why not stop? That kind-of thing.
It's a curse, I guess.