"What, you didn't think writing was going to be painless, did you?"

as a matter of fact, i thought that writing that was "meant to be" (for lack of a better expression) came easily, like the writer becomes a lightning rod for the words and the conduit completes itself on the page, sometimes even without the writer's conscious knowledge.

and maybe it does.

when one isn't dealing with people.

funny beings with quirky emotions who aren't obligated to explain.

flippant beings who change thoughts mid-sentence, decide that irrationality is as good a venue as any other.

stubborn beings who'll not be bound or dictated to, who rage when they should mellow or whimper when standing up is the only way to resolution.

confident beings whose motives are their own, and it's only because it's my framework (sandbox? maybe i meant sandbox. we're all children somewhere inside, if some deeper than others) they're playing in that i have any say as to what and whenceforth. and when they choose to whisper everything in my ear it's like a surge of pure ecstasy. but when they only tell me what they're telling me which can be so ugly as to make me want to cry right there and then, when they offer no rhyme or solace in the hope that it's all for the best later on down the line, that's when trepidation sets in, when near madness and being wound too tight for too long takes its toll in hysterical laughter, wailing, and running to the chocolate milk. intimidated? heh. they're just a couple of boys. intimidated of what everyone else will do to me if i don't do justice by them? absolutely terrified. Miranda deserves much more than the acknowledgement i added for the rollercoaster she so wholeheartedly rode out with me last night (even though she doesn't like my Lex, which i can take as a call to challenge. because god knows selling someone on The Sexy isn't the most difficult undertaking i've ever embraced.) i think i can now fully appreciate just why authors drop to their knees in supplication and praise of their betas.

"You're making so much progress. You're hitting all these writers' glitches and working right through them. You're wonderful. You're more than wonderful - you're Alexander." ::love mush::

somebody!

take these boys away from me until i find another way for them to be in the same room that doesn't involve emotional torture.

for the love.of.God. what the fuck have i put into motion. Lex only smiles at my pleas and croons 'Cool Blue Reason' at me dismissively.

i bet Danielle Steele doesn't even muss her makeup or get one hair out of place during sex.

that is if she ever even has any. so polished and unflappable, she's (ironically) the antithesis of good writing, real characters, devotion and the painstaking journey from idea to novel. how can your hands not be messy from pens gripped too mercilessly, that orthodontist's best work gone to shit over gnawed utensils and endless cups of coffee? circles around your eyes from sleepless nights of fevered scribbling, scratch marks from clawing almost absently at your own flesh in frustration and defense-mechanistic style from an overload of options and a lack of resolution to allow for the choosing of a path? fingers cramped from twisting into sheets and clawing at carpeting, knees bruised from crawling and praying in supplication to please, please let reason come and dissipate these ominous shadows? to say she writes Romance novels is a joke to me. Romance is raw, all raging and furious tide tossing about the little ships that were those people's lives before each other.

this rant brought to you by my sincere and well-meaning attempts to quell the situation but being blown off. it's like they're telling me i should've known better as a straight girl...