“The first draft of anything is shit.” Ernest Hemingway
I shouldn’t be here. It’s 6:30 in the morning and I have a cup of coffee and the last piece of sweet potato pie and I shouldn’t be here. I should be making progress.
Here’s the thing, I’m seriously messed in the head when it comes to writing for anything but my blog. It’s something that I noticed last year, last July as a matter of fact. There was a nonfiction contest running on She Writes and all I had to do was write 2,000 words of a work in progress. I had the entire month to write 2,000 words and I didn’t do it. I started again and again and again. Then I got depressed and didn’t write for a month and moped. This is the part I don’t tell you about.
This is the part where I put on my brave face and say, “Write it out, Jackass.” This is where I tell everyone to write like your hands are on fire and get past it because that works and you need to scare yourself to get there, to the place on the page where you feel yourself glow like blue-white flame.
It’s true, I swear to you it’s true.
But since then I’ve had the damnedest time writing outside the safety of the blog. Call for submissions–yeah, I can do that. I have a hundred ideas for that story. I can be funny. I have a plot line and a character and a twist and…I’m still not writing.
My back has been aching for almost a week, right here on the left side, down low. I hold my posture and keep my feet on the floor. I listen to Bob Dylan sing Desolation Row and I get a really great idea for using Fremont Street.
This character would love Fremont Street part time. This character would love my spazticity. This character should just write the story her own self and leave me out of it. And give me a massage. And take care of the kids.
I don’t believe in writer’s block. I just need a really good plumber.