Well being the responsible person that I am, rather than work on the adventure I have planned in two weeks I'm on here. Go me. I imagine I would have a literary output matching Tolstoy if I didn't have an Internet connection. I sit down to write and then after a few sentences I'm either typing "Screw Flanders" over and over again in frustration because I don't know what to do or I'm looking at pictures of Suicide Girls going, "huh".
Despite my best efforts I usually only work when it's crunch time. The motivation of failing to complete the adventure and having my friends give me silent Lee Trevino-esque shakes of the head over my failure to deliver a good game being the primary force kicking me into motion. I am very much a creature of Newton's First Law; and good luck getting my bloated carcass going when it doesn't want to.
I have nothing but respect for game designers. It's work brotha, and grinding, oh so grinding work at that. Ideas don't flow from you like some sort of divine conduit onto the paper. There is a force of will involved that I have a hard time lassoing, a willingness to hammer through the lack of ideas to get what you want. I hop around from project to project like a methed out squirrel without completing them hoping that some finger of providence will smack me in the head and give me the ability to slap pure nerdy gold onto the table, but I think I'm going to be waiting a long time for that to happen.
It's kind of more of a bummer when you do actually complete something and work up the cojones to send it off in an attempt to get your crap published and it falls flat on its face. Honestly the rejection letters aren't too bad. They're usually at least polite in telling you no. It's the no response that kills, that heavy feeling that you've crapped the tub so bad that you're not even worth sending a bugger off letter to. And then you start reading the stuff that did get accepted and your inner Alex Forrest starts to bubble up to the surface, wondering how the hell that could get the nod while the work of unrivaled genius you rattled off is now wedged between a puke stained shirt and a copy of Chunky Asses in a garbage scow.
Well to be fair I'm probably not cut out to make a living being a writer. I'd just blow the money on a chariot drawn by ten midgets dressed like cowboys or something equally weird. And I'd be spending most of my time rubbing it in certain people's faces, cause I'm classy that way. It's kind a rotten thing to admit to oneself that one of your primary motivations is being a ball of spite and pettiness but there you go. Still though, doesn't mean I can't try.
No comments:
Post a Comment