30 May 2007

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night/Day/Whenever

Why is it that when I start thinking about writing something, I will do almost anything to avoid actually having to sit down and write something? It's kind of like when I tell Matilda to pick up her toys or go to bed, and she whines, pleads, begs, and cries until, finally, after an hour of avoiding both cleaning and bed, cleans and is then happy as a clam.

Or maybe it's not like that. Maybe, just maybe, I have nothing to say. Maybe my creative juices have evaporated, maybe I am just a dried up sack full of shriveled cliches, plot lines that go nowhere and characters who lack substance.

There's this nagging feeling that if I could just carve a hour out of my day and keep it entirely to myself and then use that hour to write something (anything) that the rest would be better. That that one hour would somehow balance my life and bestow upon me infinite patience and the will to clean muddy footprints off my previously clean floor. But then, if I get that hour, and if I am able to use if for something other than grocery shopping or returning overdue videos, all I want to do is eat ice cream sandwiches and stare at the ceiling, or drive across town and wander around Target sipping overpriced coffee and not-buying things.

You know those portable charger things that you can get for your car, so if your battery dies in the middle of nowhere you're not completely screwed? I need one of those, but for writing. Do they make them? And if they do, can someone please tell me where I can buy one? I'll even take one slightly used, a hand-me-down writing charger, if you will.

And another thing, given the fact that I have so little time, how is it that I am able to waste so much of it?

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