I understand that I need the games as a crutch right now, but I'm mindful enough to not abuse this. I needed FFXV before. There's a lot to learn from the Yakuza games as a modern, contemporary genre now that I'm writing a contemporary romance (with some fantasy elements). It's nice to have structure, plans.
The last time this happened, I remember watching The Hours on Netflix. I don't think it's still there. I'll have to buy it. Maybe on the PlayStation Store to add it to my digital collection. I wrote a lot, a lot, during that time--mostly emotional pages upon pages that ended up fueling another manuscript down the line. The feeling was a lot like lying down, while forcing myself to be productive, and yet refusing to ignore my emotions. I didn't work as much as I did back then to forget. I didn't play the video games that I did back then to numb anything. I never want to forget or to numb.
What is this? It's a well of emotions, pouring through my hands to help me write Chauvinistic Coquette. Nothing is wrong with me, technically. Nothing's "wrong." It's more that I found the true gem that I needed to fill out the manuscript I'm working on--this is the absolute core, the foundation, the heart of the book, but the problem is...it hurts to have and to hold. It hurts a lot. I found it in a dream I had yesterday. It was there all along. It simply took until that dream for me to see what this was. As wonderful as this inspiration is, I can never talk about it. Because I keep a tight lid over this, I have to put it in the book. I have to disguise it through certain themes and tricks.
Venus has certain, cynical expectations that she would never admit to herself, or to anyone else--not even the reader. Astrid has to see through the illusions that I include in the prose and Venus' character to figure out this puzzle of the twisted emotional rollercoaster they're on throughout the story.
No matter what, I'll write what feels right. I don't yet know if Astrid has it in her to defy Venus' expectations and help solidify their happy ending together. The worst-case scenario is that they have a bittersweet, never-ending type of end, but nothing bad so to speak. I'm really proud of myself for finding this inspiration and not looking away from it, despite how much it hurts all the time, holding onto this inside of me, like a burning jewel whose flames I can only siphon into words. The main thing about this is that I can't rush the writing process in the hopes of getting rid of the pain. Plus it seems like every other emotion I feel, even unrelated, brings me back to this and amplifies everything to the point of frustrating me at times. I have to be a masochist about it. It's real and it's mine and it's the best thing that I can have. So I'll deal with it.
There's more. I don't want to talk about it. I'm mindful. I miss Amy, too.
As always, everything goes into a manuscript, the manuscript. Everything--even the afterthoughts. Everything...even my own determined helplessness that I chose to have and to experience as I watch the water from well of my inspiration slither into a snake, larger-than-life, fangs bared and dripping before it devours me.