And tired of whining about my life. Months ago I said I wasn't going to do that on this blog (I keep a journal for such nonsense with the intent of no one ever sharing in it) but back in the pettiness crept. Makes me tedious, to say the least.
I opened a new blog on Tumbler to vent my anger at the chaos in our world, right now. I'll use that one for the bitchin' and moanin', too. On this blog, it's all about the writing.
I know I fight and complain about how difficult it is to work out my stories, and that sometimes I seem close to psychotic...or maybe I am and just don't bother to acknowledge it except on occasion. Hmm...COULD I be the male version of Sybil? Am I the incarnation of the Cumaean Sybil? Or maybe the Delphic one? The latter sounds more like me.
"After her death, it was said that she became a wandering voice that still brought to the ears of men tidings of the future wrapped in dark riddles." This according to Wikipedia. Still...I wander...and try to tell the future through the past...and am little paid attention to. Plus I'm touched with a curse that is also a blessing. Hey, we could be twins...or mother and son. Except there's no Greek or Italian in me.
BUT...one legend says the Tuatha de Danann originated in Greece...so in my brain that can be extrapolated into meaning far more than it probably does, but gives me excuse enough to see the Delphic Sybil as casting her spells on me and using me to render prophesies...only I don't render them, do I?
Okay, that sentence made no sense. But that's how I work -- taking bizarre turns and twists to find something that makes my stories come alive. Become more real than my reality. I speak with my characters and walk in their ways for moments at a time, and worry about my sanity...and cannot imagine doing this in any other way.
I just read over a kids adventure script I wrote and got a couple of awards for...before I allowed it to be ruined by trying to shift it into something for an animation feature. I allowed other people's doubts about themselves and their abilities cloud my thoughts and give life to my own doubts. The version of the script I scanned is the latest one, and it's rushed and lost and has no honesty to it, anymore. It offends me. I'm going to ask the people who helped me ruin it if I can take the story into book form and rebuild its truth.
(BTW, that image is Michelangelo's Delphic Sybil in the Sistine Chapel.)