Working on the sixth Chance script, which isn’t going very fast at all, in part because typing is still difficult and in part because I’ve been…just not working, really. My fingers are vastly improved, but not better by any stretch of the imagination. This morning Zilli got under Ted’s feet and went YOWL and it scared me and my hands clenched and my fingers went YOWL too, because they’re nowhere near that bendy yet. They’re yellow and black now, mostly; I think the suface damage has largely healed but the deeper stuff is still black and stiff. This is a real you-know-what in the ass, as a teenage friend said to her mother (”Holly,” said her mother, “it’s all right to say ‘pain’.”), and I absolutely *can’t* type at Nook, because it requires way too much twisting of my wrists to be able to reach the keys that would usually be hit with the pinky and ring fingers. I will be very glad when this is healed. :p
Anyway, this morning while I was working on the Chance script, I had this moment, which I’m sure there’s a good non-English word for, of a combined “Holy shit, how did I get into this and how could anybody possibly think I know what I’m doing?” and “Y’know, actually, I think I might not be bad at this.”
I suspect, actually, that that more or less summarizes the mental space many writers find themselves in a lot of the time.
The remainder of this entry has nothing at all to do with writing, but a lot to do with living and fitting in in Ireland. It may fall under the heading of Obligatory Livejournal Wangst, although I don’t mean to snivel nor am I especially looking to elicit sympathy. Still, you’ve been warned.( Collapse )(x-posted from the essential kit)