inkgrrl's inkblog

The truth of the matter is, I am a lazy writer. I don’t want to have to work out the details as I go, I want all the answers before I begin. There’s a certain smug comfort in having all the answers before putting oneself into a perilous situation. And writing down the bones and shadows and blood and guts that lurk not-quite-deeply-enough in my soul is a committment most perilous, should I ever intend to show the strewn errata to anybody. Much less hope to have them understand what the bloody hell I was on about. Which requires time and effort to edit into shape plus a lot moar words, as I tend to write short in my first drafts. So hey, I’m also a committment-phobe. Yay me.

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Just wow. I’ve been blaming pain levels, medication side effects, emotional fallout from both, and the phase of the moon on my frustration lately.

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I refuse to believe that this will always be inevitable, I refuse to believe that this is the best we can expect:

“Neda Is My Daughter, I Have One Just Like Her”