Life. Death. Writing Blocks. Nothing At All.

I've been going through a writing dry period.

I think this is alright... I mean, I did just finish a novel, and I wrote I don't know how many hundreds of pages in articles on Alterati this past year.

But it still feels strange to me, occasionally opening up a window to write, and either having nothing much to say, or more commonly, simply not having the requisite mental... compression... to get it out. When I'm really in full-tilt writing mode, it's like there's a pressure in my head, and the only thing that will alleviate it is writing, as quickly as my fingers will hammer it out. The words appear directly on the screen from my mind's eye, there isn't even any awareness of the intermediary of finger, bone, nor necessities like food, water, breathing. (Thank God for that brainstem, no?)

None of that these days. Right now, tweaking generally atonal soundtrack pieces for the audiobook (the last two pieces were based primarily around diminished scales and working on chromatic basslines that move back to the tonic in the most unnecessary ways possible), recording my requisite voiceovers, doing my day in day out work and meetings, and waiting to build a truly creative space again.

In other news, for those that didn't catch it before, I found out that my errant father died last Friday of leukemia. His funeral was tonight. Instead, I spent some time with some old friends - wishing more of the friends I made during those times were present, but I can at least imagine or pretend that they would have been if they could have been, or if I would have bothered to arrange some big to-do. But that's not really what I wanted. Just a low key, brief retrospective. My Dad simply wasn't there. His presence was defined by his absence. I'm more concerned about those who were. And those who will be.

If you consider yourself a friend, it would be nice to hear from you- just a hello, and maybe the opportunity to catch up. But I don't need anything from any of you. I'm doing fine.