Writing seriously (that is, taking the creation of a story seriously) is turning into a giant pain in my ass. I find myself wanting to do a story justice, or a character. I find myself at a loss for how to spill all the chaotic mass of pieces onto a readable format, especially since the process following it will be sheer madness. Cutting out the questionable material, tieing everything together, maybe adding to it… and the cutting out more. Rinse and repeat until it feels right.
The idea of it is daunting.
This, this, is why I say thinking things through is a waste of fucking time. It’s better to be crazy and embrace madness than to drive myself insane with needless worry, concern… the idea of hard work, or of killing a passion by making it to much of a pain in the ass. Put another way (maybe in terms that you’ll find more understandable), better to do crazy shit and make a mess than to go the wrong kind of crazy worrying about all the unpleasant parts of cleaning it up.
And no, that doesn’t have to make sense.
I know how I can explain it in a way that does though.
It’s like I’m being trapped by my sanity. Again.
Yes, that’s it. It isn’t madness that the over-thinking achieves. Madness and genius are almost the same thing, but the kind of inaction, uncertainty, and… and the turmoil brought on by all this over-thinking, that’s something else. Madness is about joy, about pleasure, about fun. Even if it hurts or destroys. Even if there’s no discernible reason for it. Over-thinking things, worrying, doubting? Those are what take you as far from insanity as one can get. They’re poisonous.
I guess that brings me back to my party line: Fuck The Consequences.