I've become increasingly concerned about my status as a writer and artist of any sort. Motivation's not exactly been high, and the conflict with my life that I've used as a muse in the past is rather missing now. My life really has been progressing quite well. I'm pleased with it. But this sadly does leave me at a loss for a muse.
I was out having a smoke a few hours ago, and I got to thinking. With all this insanity, school shootings, Jack Thompson, serial killers being freed from prison, pretty much every facet of modern living... I am starting to find a new muse. I've gone from working with the inner conflicts to the external.
I have an idea along this vein, for at least a short story. Nothing publishable, just something to get the skills back into use. Think The Crow, but then remove all the goth cliches. I want to write a story of loss. A story of pushing sanity to its limit, pulling out the rug from under it. I want to write a story of vengeance.
I know, its been done. A lot. But I think this is the first step towards me making some sort of understanding with the world I live in. I don't see much happiness in the news, anymore. I had to stop watching it. I was going to sleep worried the world wouldn't be here when I woke up. Now, I just go to bed, knowing for a few others, it won't. That one day, there will be no world for me, either.
So now, I write not to deal with the problems within myself, but to rationalize and deal with the problems I have with the world.
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