Writer’s block.
Yes, we’re still on this.
… Staring at my writing folder, mulling over projects that have been sitting there mocking me for months, wondering if I start poking at them with sharper sticks, they’ll respond.
… Reading through projects I haven’t touched in awhile, remembering why I loved them so much in the first place. Thinking I should really get back to working on them and…I got nothin’.
… Looking at one project in particular I’ve had a long-running love-hate relationship with (No. Not that one…for once.) and suddenly wondering WHAT IF. What if I changed a certain character to THIS character (causing a complete cast overhaul as a result) and then find myself giggling at the idiocy of it all. Because seriously.
… Jabbing at a project (Yes, THAT ONE. What else?) realizing how much I really miss those characters no matter how much their story drives me absolutely insane.
… Wondering why I torture myself with this writing business in the first place, remembering that it’s the one thing I’m actually good at no matter how sporadic, incoherent, or inane it might be.
This is my brain and welcome to it.
She didn’t react when he put his hand on her back again, but she was pretty sure she heard a squawk of disapproval from the desk they’d just walked away from. He punched the call button and the elevator doors slid open. He ushered her into the car and pressed the button for the twentieth floor.
She gripped the support rail on the wall, “I thought maybe the claws were about to come out over there.”
He snorted, shaking his head as the doors slid shut, “I have a reputation, but I do not play where I work. Much to the apparent dismay of many.”
“Well at least you have standards.”
“Ever have sex in an elevator?”
“Or not,” she didn’t bother refraining from rolling her eyes this time, “I have not, no.”
“You should try it sometime. It’s quite an experience.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
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Missing Pieces O.A.R. |