The nice thing about writing is that it can be done anywhere, for the most point. I can go to the library and write. I can sit in Pizza Pucks and write while I wait for my 7 inch thin crust onion & green pepper treat. I can grab my laptop and hang out at the Barnes & Noble café, pay way too much for a teeny tiny Diet Coke, and tap away to my heart’s content.
The problem with writing is that even though I can do it anywhere, it’s not something I can get someone else to do for me, like the dishes (which would be very nice, actually, since I haven’t done them today and I’m having back spasms, which makes bending over kind of a problem…) I’ve picked work that I have to do all by myself, with no help other than suggestions and helpful critique.
I have this idea stuck in my head; it has the structure of a kick-ass story, but I can’t seem to get it out of my head and onto the computer. I know the characters, the backstory—I have all the bones to it but the meat just won’t wrap around them. I don’t even have a literary corpse because I haven’t been able to breathe enough life into it to let it wither and die.
Eventually, that first line will come to me, and the rest will follow (after which I’ll change that first line 457 times, but without a first line of some sort, there’s simply not a second, or a third.) Right now it’s just frustrating.
Oprah will want this book if I ever write it.
It’s that good.
Stop laughing! It is! It is!
It would be nice if I could offer the Boy $20 to get it started, or convince the Spouse Thingy that it would help my back pain some if he’d just scribble out the first few paragraphs, but that’s not happening.
So I’ll sit here, and sigh hard every 4.8 seconds, trying to coax this incredible story out of a very jumbled up brain.
It’ll be worth the wait.