The Strange Case of Dr Me-writer and Mr Me-logician

So I have this peculiar problem. I spend an afternoon typing up fiction, and it's all good, I move the plot along, increase the page and word count appreciably, yadda yadda yadda, fun and games, etc. Good news.

Comes five o'clock--generally it's five o'clock--and I'm not written out, but I choose to quit. Usually I choose to quit due to the encroachment of this living colors thing. The parts of my life with realistic commitments attached, like eating, peeing, and socializing. The stride that I feel like I've hit in the afternoon doesn't feel strode out yet, but I decide that "quit while you're ahead" is a good strategy. Take a break is a good strategy. Come back to it later is a good strategy.

Around then the logician begins to push in on my creativity. After these encroaching, living color commitments are all took care of and all, I think to myself, "Hey, I've got some stride left. Why not go back to fiction land and play for a while? I haven't messed up the lives of these imaginary characters yet. It'd be fun, and further my whole 'want to be a novelist' outlook on life. Make me feel professional, and justified."

But I remember those times when the writer in me ran dry. The logician in me remembers those times the writer got confused and the goat in me pushed through the muzzy eyes and produced unpleasing prose, which the critic in me got bored of, and the cynic in me used as justification to stop writing altogether for quite some time. Telling the lamb in me that I obviously had written myself into a corner, that I no longer had inspiration, and I should wait for the artist in me to rejuvenate and reassert itself.

Such multiplicity. I'm so confused.

Recently, the craftsman in me is stronger than the artist. Artistry, to me, has come to be so much unimaginative, feel-good morallity, important because it provides the gut reaction to the living colors trying to screw with my opus, but useless as a driving force or a forming ideal or any kind of well of invention. The craft of the thing is of greater, more interesting, and more potent reality....

And the logician says, "That is so much over-impassioned hash."

Thus most of my evenings are spent quietly waiting for the dawn, when the circumstances will again be right for the writer in me to assert itself once again over the mathematician, and rise to create those things which will be my legacy.

In the meantime, I'll be writing blogs as if they were monologs by various characters from Andromeda. Go me. Woot.