Frustrations

I must say, I have never considered myself a flighty female, but my painful lack of perseverance in my writing rather points to that conclusion, doesn’t it?

Never have I completed a project. Never have I fully edited a story. Never have I taken a blog (yes, I’ve tried several blogs before) past a scant six months. Always a project begins with such energy, such enthusiasm, to end only with a whimper. To end? Not even to end: to drag along, to putz and plod at a ponderous pace through the back alleyways of subconsciousness, doomed to live on forever with no end, no closure, no merciful death.

Oh, for a Stygian abyss, into whose miasmal depths I could pour forth my anguish and woe …

(Yes, I’ve been spelunking again).

Emotion, immured behind Prudence’s cruel façade of pleasantry and civility, struggles to make himself* heard. Oh, frustration. Blistering barnacles. The stupor of ill-spent Time begins to creep upon him, stultifying his consciousness, causing his limbs to lose strength, lose energy, lose use. How to explain the numbness of words, when zeal and passion have fled!

Some call it writer’s block. Others, perhaps, a mere temporary lapse of time, a time for percolation rather than thunderstorms of the brain. As for me, I find the words slipping from my grasp, with that dreadful sinking feeling — that knowledge — that they will not return to continue that project for perhaps months, years, eternities.

How to catch a writer’s second wind? How to take another step, and another, and another, when you’re only halfway there? How to turn away from the social sorceress’s glow, back to the solid black and white of redlining?

How?

Frustrations.

 

*(Herself? Is Emotion Female? [what a title for a thesis! — oh, but Sayers has something along those lines already. Bother.]).

Advertisements

Hullo!

Please, call me Blue. The “lady” is in imitation of some of my favorite literary characters: Lady Frankie (Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?), Lady Harriet (Wives and Daughters), Lady Catherine de Bourgh (Pride and Prejudice). The “whimsy” is, well, for the sake of whimsy, as well as for another favourite character — indeed, family of characters: the family Wimsey, Dorothy L. Sayers’ brilliant mystery creation. The “blue” happens to be a nickname assigned when I spent a few months in the company of some half-a-dozen other females who shared my first name; we called it coincidence, but who knows what nefarious plot of the troglodytes of Greek mythology might have brought us together.

Rule #1 of this blog: I like words. I’m a bit of a word nerd, in fact. So, when I have recently been spelunking for verbiage, or just returned from a particularly fruitful deep-dictionary diving, you will hear no end of odd, assorted words. I plan to give you a “whimsical word of the week” for your vocabulary-building exercises, and the scattered strangelings I leave in my wake I will highlight for you to peruse and pursue at your leisure. Hence, troglodyte. Look it up.

You might call me mad. Or, obsessed. Some, perhaps, will say “eccentric” or “bored” or “just plain weird.” But, no worries, I answer to “Blue.”

Beyond the square reaches of the grey, windowless cubicle I call work, and the brownish expanse of Midwestern soybean fields I call home, my mind wanders far and wide in search of adventure. Someday-famed author is only one of the many alter-egos I possess and cherish. Moonlighting as a cookie ninja comes a close second. Amateur time-traveller (as of today; who knows what yesterday may bring), fairy godmother-in-training, never-to-be-yet-always-wishful-linguist, and Calvin-and-Hobbesian also appear on my resume. Well, not the resume my boss sees.

But anywho.

Welcome to Blue Whimsy writing 🙂