You know that kind of blind artistic fury wherein you feel your cells burning off lightspeed, you have to piss but you don’t want to stop writing, and, well, sleep?  What’s that?  The last couple of months have been that way for me.  I’ve cranked out at least five short to novella pieces.  Most of them just sort of found me before breakfast and I had them mostly written by dusk.  That’s different for me, because I spend a lot of my creative time hammering out details on bigger projects–which I’ve also been doing.  It’s nice to have a driveby manifest with considerably less effort than a tome, and even come out pretty good on the first pass.  Having several do so is just freaking rich.

I’m also enjoying having matured past projecting into characters.  I haven’t consciously done it for a decade or so, but in the rearview I read something and realize it carries embedded bits and secret DNA.  The characters that have been speaking recently are in radically different life places than myself, thinking drastically graphic thoughts in comparison, dragging around intensely polar wounds to my own.  And maybe that’s partly it, too–investigating the other side.  But what exactly is the otherside for a poly pansexual animist androgyne?  Seriously.  Sometimes I feel like I’m so undefined and so many different creatures in one that I can’t step out of myself ever, really.

Ah, but that’s world view, too.  All Are One, etc.

Quite liberating.  At any rate, it’s producing some great writing.  I’m not sure who the hell will want to read them, cos they’re quite dark.  But I’m very happy with how they are coming out.  A couple are on desks as I type.  Like not my desk, which is another promising feeling.

I wish you words.