In Between Worlds

There is a voice in my head that tells me I can't. It is a persistent voice, alternately whisper-soft and bitchy-loud. I can't write. I can't do this. I can't do that.

I need to get out of this rut asap, because like it or not, I can do this.

I am my own harshest critic.

There is only up.

***

I wrote today. Mon dieu! It is a good feeling, having the idea down on paper (well, screen - but you get the idea). A short story, set in the urban fantasy universe I have been building.

At the meantime, I have been reading about the White Rajahs. Admittedly, the book is quite old: 1960. The views are outdated. I have been cutting through the grain, sieving the facts from the chaff. Imagine the 19th century right up to the 1940s - a lot of daring-dos and adventure. The steampunk part of me goes "Woot" at the mention of iron-clad ships. The history part of me goes "Remember, those were difficult times, even for the British Empire!" There was imperialism, there was arrogant snobbery, and there was racism. Yet, at the end, I kept thinking: "Those were difficult times!" [EDIT: 'Difficult times' does not excuse the fact that there was rampant racism or the fact that colonialism did take place]

Are we beyond those times now? Are we still - metaphorically - stuck in it? Rhetorical questions there, of course.

Some writing planned for tonight.

Meanwhile, child-wrangling - with a sprained left wrist.

Trying to get my thoughts in order.