My problem.

My brain works much too hard. I'll literally write pages of one story and my brain has already created three new ones. I've created a 'plot ideas' notebook. I just grabbed a small notebook out of my notebook stash. I wrote down one plot idea already. I figure I'll use one big notebook for each story. I think writing a few stories at once will be fun. I know that not all of them will pan out, but I think that if I do a few at once that I will finally find ONE that will eventually pan out into a novel, or at least a novella.

That's my thought process, anyways.

----------------
Now playing: Operatika - Dreamworld

Untitled 1930s story selection 3.

What's happening here: Maria has left a party, denying Quinn's invitation for a ride and is instead walking home. Quinn promised her father he would take her home and is driving up alongside her while she's walking along the side of the road. There was some dialogue before this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a few minutes there was no sound except for the usual car noises and Maria's heels clicking on the pavement. Then she started talking aloud, not necessarily at him, but just to nobody.

"All my life I have gone through my days in a constant order. I didn't realize that until now. I had thought of the future, but never my future. I thought of my brother's future; my father's future. I never had to stop and think about this until now - my future. I never examined it. I never thought of where I'd be 20, 30, 40 years from now. No one had stopped to ask me what I wanted to do with my life. But now I think about it constantly. Now my world is an array of chaos. I think about my life now, my past and my future. No one made me think of this before-"

"And this is why you resent me, because I made you examine all this?"

She stopped, as did the car. And without even thinking she ran around the back and across the road to the other side of the street. Of course, she didn't think because this only caused Quinn to turn off the car and get out. He walked over to the left side of the street.

"You are nuts. Are you really going to follow me all the way, leaving your car here, and walk all the way back?"

"Hopefully I can convince you before we get that far." She opened her mouth to say something and he raised his right hand. "Please, can I just say something?" She close her mouth and crossed her arms, looking off to the side instead of at him.

"Now, I know some comments I have made towards you have sent your world into an 'array of chaos.' But you see, that was never my intention. I realized that I can actually get some sort of passionate conversation out of you. Unlike others I converse with, which is why I don't go out of my way to speak to them or to go to functions which I usually hate, hoping that they are there so I can hope for another passionate and intelligent conversation from someone who doesn't have their head up their ass. Excuse my language, but the way I speak to you is there to intentionally ignite some sort of spark. Maybe I should tone it down a bit, and I will, that is, if you want to continue speaking with me."

"And all this time I thought you were some patronizing, arrogant jerk who just liked to see me get angry."

"Ah, I love honesty."

"Well, now you be honest. Why did you kiss me?"

"I told you, it just seemed right. I usually don't do things like that so spontaneously, but I did and I don't regret it. Did I offend you by doing so? If I did then I will apologize."

"No. No, I'm not offended. Nothing of that sort has happened to me before and I suppose I was taken off guard, especially not knowing your intentions."



----------------
Now playing: Abney Park - Love

A Carnival Ride To Mercury

Put upon a pedestal
For all the world to see
A fellow playing masquerade
Who went by the name Freddie Mercury

We only saw what he let us
Peering with awe in our eyes
We thought he'd always be there
But on a day in '91 to heaven his soul did rise

Spoiled by his genius we were
And at times we thought he wasn't real
Caught up in his fun-house of mirrors world
Thinking he would leave us was surreal

When that day did come we were at a loss
We sat in silence listening for a sign
And in the distance we heard a faint “Day-oh!”
Thanks for the memories, Freddie, they were divine

Character Name Change Again

I think I finally got the names of my two main characters. I changed the name of Rosalinda to Silvia and now to Maria and the name Edward to Quinn. Stick, damn you. So far, when I write their names, there isn't an irking feeling in the back of my head.

I've been writing at least one page a night. I stop when I feel I can write no more. I don't want to force it. Tonight I wrote three pages of my main characters' first conversation. I just could not stop. A sample:

~~~

"You can read people well, can't you?"

"I don't really observe people, but I can read you very easily."

"Well, I can't read you at all. I don't think that's fair; you know so much about me and I know nearly nothing about you."

"Ask me something, then. Although, I do have the right not to answer it."

It's safe to say that this man was full of secrets and wasn't much of a socialable person, but here he sat talking to her. She did have one question for him that she had been wondering about, but she had a feeling it was one where he would use his 'right not to answer it'.

"Who was that blonde woman you were with at my father's last party? I thought perhaps your wife, but I see no wedding band."

He was looking straight ahead and looked to try to figure out what to answer with, almost like he was going to tell her it was none of her business. She waited. He then looked down and off to the side and said, "She's no one." He almost didn't answer this, but forced himself to.

"A friend, then?"

"No. No one." He was looking at her. "No one." He repeated "I have no relationship with her."

He looked serious, but yet she was not afraid to ask him another question. "What of family, then? I know your father use to do business with my father before you."

"Yes, he and the rest of them live in New York. My parents are divorced and my father remarried and I have a half-brother seventeen years younger. I don't know where my mother is. Maybe she went back to Italy? Who knows?"

"Do you live her in New London, then?"

"Yes, I hate New York." He said it in a tone that made Maria feel it wasn't exactly the state or city he hated.

She was happy she got something out of him, she felt that that was a chore and decided not to press anything else for now, unless he brought something up.

~~~

My story takes place in New London, Connecticut. I don't know why I picked there, but something clicked when I looked up stuff about it.


----------------
Now playing: Kamelot - The Human Stain

I'm writing like a fiend!

All my previous fear of my writing not being good enough is not stopping me anymore. This beautiful story that I have in my head is now making it's way to the pages. My hand hurts from writing. And yes, I prefer the good old-fashioned pen and paper - I get my better ideas that way. I forgot how things can come to you while you're writing, things you weren't thinking of when you started. I LOVE that feeling.

I realized what the one thing I hate about writing is: picking character names. I don't really stress over the minor characters, but for the main characters I want their names to be perfect. And as I'm going through all these baby name websites, I'm thinking 'No. No. No. Not good enough! Doesn't fit them.' Blah. I love when a name comes to me while I'm thinking of the story, and that does happen sometimes, but sometimes when I'm imagining my character in my head I immediately think of their personality, family life, habits, the way they talk, etc, but I've got no stinking name for them! The main female character in my current story, for example, I've changed her name once already and I started actually putting this on paper a few days ago. And while I'm writing this and using the new name I've picked for her there is this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that this isn't the right name, her name is suppose to be something else. What I figure I'll do is just keep using this name and one day she'll reveal her real name to me. I can't wait for the feeling when she finally tells me what it is, it shall be euphoria!

----------------
Now playing: Kamelot - Farewell

Untitled 1930s story selection 2.

June 24, 1934

This trip to New York seems longer than usual, although it should feel shorter. For once I'm eager to get there.

I'm not use to writing down my thoughts down on paper, so am I doing this right? I suppose it doesn't matter, since I'll be the only eyes to see it. I have been given journals and diaries as gifts in the past, but never used them as such. This particular journal was a gift from someone who has inspired me to do things I haven't done before. And things didn't go well yesterday when I told her I had to go away for awhile. I assume that she hates me, but I couldn't tell her why I had to go. What I'm doing I am doing for her. It pains me that I couldn't tell her why. Hopefully when I return from this trip things can start anew, for I'll then be free, from a lot of things.

Untitled 1930s story selection 1.

Mary picked up the journal that she thought no longer existed, the journal of her grandmother's tragically fallen lover - the journal she gave to him.

Her grandmother told her she gave Edward the journal on his birthday - before that trip, that trip in which he came back fully hers. Her grandmother never saw it again and just assumed he never used it, figuring so since he wasn't much for writing, not even letters.

But here Mary held it. It was in great condition for being about 70 years old. It was leather, brown and felt very used. Mary could hardly contain her excitement. His side of the story, she thought. But then she realized, it might not be what she was expecting. Her grandmother herself said he wasn't much of a writer. What if he only used it for business? For numbers? She quickly flipped through it and saw it wasn't filled up with words, it didn't have a chance, but it was written in. She opened the cover gently and saw written on the first page:

To: Edward
Love: Rosalinda

June 23, 1934

Mary ran her fingers over her grandmother's handwriting, handwriting of a girl so in love.