Still Constipated

My imagination, that is.

Interesting metaphor--that imaginative output can be equated with physical waste--but work with me, here. While there may be a vast difference physically between physical and psychic constipation, both considitions have a lot in common.

Ahem. Anyway . . . I've decided to ditch the idea I had earlier. I still think it's a good idea, but it's a good idea for a TV or comic book series, which is something I don't want to start right now. I want something stand alone. A single novel or something like that.

I want to write an SF novel, set in space, about a group of people doing something desperate and heroic. Something like the movie Sunshine, I guess. My problem, now as always, is everything I come up with gets too freaking complicated. Which means the initial idea isn't very strong.

Fellow writers out there, hear me now--if it takes more than three or four sentences to sum up what your work is about, it's too freaking complicated. Simplify it, or do something else, or your work will become a muddled mess, which will totally obscure the story you are trying to tell. I know this, from bitter personal experience.

Personally, not much has been going on with me these days. Work has been busy, but that's a good thing, right? Atari just had a bath and he's pouting about it, which is normal. I'm considering recording an instrumental or something while my potential guest singer ponders whether or not she wants to contribute vocals to this tune I've been working on--she has a rough mix of it now, along with a mix with my own vocals for her to use as guidance as to what I want. We'll see. I think she's kinda iffy about it--it's not what she normally does anyway. I reckon we'll see.

So, enjoy your weekend, relax as much as you can, and keep your fingers crossed the crap that's been building up inside of me finds an outlet soon. Before it makes one. Yuck.