All right, all right Raggedy Ann. You get your own tag. I bet that makes you feel like a million bucks.
The Camel With the Wrinkled Knees left me excited, yes it did. Since I want to learn more about you and your brother Andy and your misadventures together, I'm checking out all the books about you that I can. At least the ones published up until Gruelle's death in 1938, nom. I can't tell which ones are posthumous or ghost writer. :P There's like... 40+ books, you know that? So I'm narrowing it down to the ones that matter. Stuff like Number and Alphabet books don't count. XD The modern age isn't gonna be kind to Beloved Belindy, so she'll be skipped. That, and Wooden Willie sounds... phallic. :P
( Book list for my own reference, and me going SMRPG!Bowser Tears over merchandise. ) Fuck, none of this is important right now. Actually calling up the jobs I highlighted from Sunday's Classified section would be. Except I get lazy/distracted/lose confidence or something. What happened to my attitude? What's with the self-doubt? When did I start being so skeptical and hopeful at the same time? I feel like friggin' Cinderella in that I know there's good stuff for me out there, but I can't be arsed to do a thing. Then opportunity comes and what do I do? Freeze up. Like I'm afraid of success or failure or change. I have no idea what's wrong with me. Is that why I'm taking so long finishing my novel? 'Cause I lack discipline? Do I want someone to tell me, "No, you can't do it. What the hell are you doing with Raggedy Ann? This is crap, this is a waste of time." so I'll get angry and push myself to defy my fate as a bad writer or someone who'll never make it? Dad and I heard on the radio that Anthony Burgess was supposed to die of a brain tumor, so he wrote
five to eight novels in that time. In the end, it turns out he wasn't terminally ill after all, and ended up outliving his wife and dying of lung cancer on 1993. Yeesh, it shouldn't have to take
dying to get my ass in gear. So it IS discipline, isn't it?
"Stop whining and start writing. :)" Probably the most important thing someone said to me long ago, and I still struggle with her advice. I do a whole lot of whining and never enough writing. It's basically a question of wondering if I have what it takes. And I do, god fucking dammit. Quitting writing = Committing suicide. I don't care how hard it is and how much I do complain, it's my frickin' life and it's got the colors and the joy and the experience than just wandering like a colorless zombie and keeping my imagination and thoughts and feelings to myself. I was made for this and it's time I showed myself who's boss.
And it looks like Dad didn't pay the water bill, so fuck. I'm gonna snip out those job applications and carry them with me to the library. I need to think and organize my head. I should quit being so passive. Hopefully it won't be an inner euphemism for me to run out and forget my problems for a while like it's pretty much been lately. It's one thing to have your head in the clouds, but when they turn dark and rain/strike on you and fog your perception on things, it's time to shoo them off.