See, I was talking to silensy the other day and bemoaning the fact that I don't seem to have PLOTS in my head (I am allergic to bunnies, so I guess I am also allergic to plotbunnies...? I need a "here, bunny bunny bunny, heeeeeere plotbunny!" icon), I just have SCENES in my head. In fact, most of the stories I have ever written came to me as a single scene first, which I wrote the rest of the story around. So. Scenes! I will write. A collection of short short stories. Daydreams drabbled onto paper (paper because I can't seem to write on the computer, I have to write in a notebook).
I have also decided to reward myself for writing, on the premis that it will motivate me. I haven't decided on a rewards system yet, but I'll come up with something.
And now, something from Eunoia, by Christian Bok, to motivate me:
Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks—impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn't it glib? Isn't it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits, writing schtick which might instill priggish misgivings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nit-picking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I bitch; I kibitz—griping while criticizing dimwits, sniping while indicting nitwits, dismissing simplistic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.
(Still have a headache. Fucking devil winds.)