Lament of the Lolita

What brings me here today?  Good question.  Because I think my mind is stuck in a number of places today.

I’ve had this idea on my mind for so long now, the one about the story idea I had almost two years ago that never went beyond a five hundred word scene.  Right now it’s in need of a good outlining, as well as some time lining and some technical specs on different things.

Though I’m tempted to say, “I need to work on this right now,” and do it, I know I’m not ready with it.  More thought needs to go into it, more work on the first story outline is required.  There’s nothing wrong with having ideas; there is something wrong if you shoot off half-cocked on a story, and find, halfway through, you have no idea where you’re going.  Good Doctor Asimov said to know your ending before you begin, and I’m getting the ending set up.

I don’t want to start off without an idea of where the journey ends.

I’m somewhat conflicted this day.  I slept very well last night:  I would even go so far as to say I received a great night’s sleep.  But here, at The Hole, I’m spinning my wheels.  I know I’m getting things done, but it doesn’t feel that way.  It feels like I’m off on a race, and I’m going nowhere very quickly.

There are things I want to do, rather than what I should do, and therein lies the conundrum.  Yes, I know the arguments:  you have a job that pays, as opposed to this writing thing that has so far paid you enough to buy you lunch once.

But, hey:  starving artists, you know?  Someone’s gotta do it.

Then there were the strange-ass dreams from last night . . . with this exhaustion starting to go away, the dreams are becoming vivid once more, and the latest was vivid and weird—

The plot seemed to be this:  I was being followed by people I didn’t know, who didn’t want me to do the things I wanted to do.  I wanted to study science; they said I needed to study English.  I wanted to study creative writing; they said I had to study cooking.  I wanted to go to the museum; they said I had to go shopping.

The “me” who was getting all this grief from the unknown “they” was the Cassidy me, the cute redhead who started out as a role playing character.  She/I was dressed in some gothic Lolita outfit the whole way through the dream, which had some black in it, but also some cream and some white, and some pink.  In fact, the gloves were pink, but I’m sure my boots were white . . . hey, it was a dream, you know?

I seemed to be pouty most of the time.  Not because of the outfit—no, I was spectacular.  It was because I was being thwarted from following my chosen path every time I was ready to begin walking.  It pissed me off, because I’m ready, I’ve been ready, to move forward, and I was being held back all the time.

The writer in me is ready to move on:  I’m ready for the one true path.  It seems like there are so many things holding me back—

Not the least of which is probably me.