Lately I've been knee deep in trying to churn out a novel in a few months while simultaneously thinking about school and not really caring whether or not I go (or at least remain) crazy. Those right there are the obvious obstacles...school, earning a living, friends, family, that pesky little thing called life...that you hear of most often. What everyone seems to ignore when talking about problems with writing a book is the possibility that you just might get distracted. For some reason everyone likes to pretend that it doesn't happen to them.
I have a bunch of ideas for stories. They're all written down somewhere in a bunch of little notebooks, and I'm always thinking about at least one of them. The problem is that I can't get my Sci-Fi novel--the one that I put off until I'm finished with the one I'm working on right now--out of my head. I sit down with my pen to write about castles and dragons, but all I can think about is aliens. It's maddening.
The strange new alien obsession may or may not be due to my current paper than I'm having to write on Scientology. I can't tell you how many people gave me strange looks when I walked out of my school's library with a copy of Dianetics. I wanted to shout, "Hey, you've got me all wrong! I'm not a Scientologist; I'm just as whacked out on prescription drugs as you are!"
And once again we come full circle to the Zoloft. And the coffee. And the energy drinks. And the perverted jokes. And the half-assed research attempts that prove my glibness.
Good Lord, I'm a Scientologist's worst nightmare. But then again, I'm a lot of people's worst nightmare.
I took about half of the notes that I need to write the paper last night from Dianetics and a few newspaper and magazine articles. Let me just say that I'm happy that the Church of Scientology probably isn't the least bit interested in me or the $0.32 I have to my name.
Yes. That is what is in my bank account. The words "college student" and "writer" do not mix well at all.
I'm going to call the paper, "The World Only Xenu Knows" and hope to God that someone out there gets the joke.
No one ever gets my jokes, you see.
Hey, if you think that's cheesy, I also thought about calling it "Children of a Lesser Xenu." Bet you're distraught that you almost got away without knowing that one.
I have a bunch of ideas for stories. They're all written down somewhere in a bunch of little notebooks, and I'm always thinking about at least one of them. The problem is that I can't get my Sci-Fi novel--the one that I put off until I'm finished with the one I'm working on right now--out of my head. I sit down with my pen to write about castles and dragons, but all I can think about is aliens. It's maddening.
The strange new alien obsession may or may not be due to my current paper than I'm having to write on Scientology. I can't tell you how many people gave me strange looks when I walked out of my school's library with a copy of Dianetics. I wanted to shout, "Hey, you've got me all wrong! I'm not a Scientologist; I'm just as whacked out on prescription drugs as you are!"
And once again we come full circle to the Zoloft. And the coffee. And the energy drinks. And the perverted jokes. And the half-assed research attempts that prove my glibness.
Good Lord, I'm a Scientologist's worst nightmare. But then again, I'm a lot of people's worst nightmare.
I took about half of the notes that I need to write the paper last night from Dianetics and a few newspaper and magazine articles. Let me just say that I'm happy that the Church of Scientology probably isn't the least bit interested in me or the $0.32 I have to my name.
Yes. That is what is in my bank account. The words "college student" and "writer" do not mix well at all.
I'm going to call the paper, "The World Only Xenu Knows" and hope to God that someone out there gets the joke.
No one ever gets my jokes, you see.
Hey, if you think that's cheesy, I also thought about calling it "Children of a Lesser Xenu." Bet you're distraught that you almost got away without knowing that one.
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