Contrary to popular weatherman opinion, it is raining and dreary here this morning. I like it just fine. But then I don't have to go anywhere either. Finding myself at home and at my leisure after a rather busy working week (for me anyway).... I'm having odd thoughts run through the gray matter.
Ever notice how when you are about to plug in one of those electrical plugs that all have one side bigger than the other, that invariably, the way you are trying to put it in is not the right way and you have to turn it around?
Ditto with the window blinds. If you want to open them, you end up grabbing the string that closes them and vise versa.
Some time ago I read a book on writing that said you should let go of your need to write neatly and just scribble away with abandon. That this would unleash your inner right brained creative side and annoy the heck out of "The Watcher" who is the critic of all you do. That was a liberating insight. I took it. I ran with it. I gave myself over to it with abandon. - - - Only thing is, now all I seem to be able to do is scribble. I used to have VERY nice handwriting. Now I scrawl. I scratch. I swerve.
Now I AND the Watcher are annoyed. But I DID learn to write some pretty good stuff that way.
Last night at my writer's group, someone handed over a paper they had edited, that had THE most wonderful purple sparkly ink on it. I begged to see the pen. I wrote these words with it.... Uniball Signo Rainbow ..... which is the name of the pen. I came home. I got on the internet. They sell them in jolly old England. But over here it looks like all we get is black. I am distraught. I am inconsolable. I am green with envy. But, I found these:
Dreamy Pens From Across The Pond
She DID say she thought she may have bought hers while she was in Europe recently.
Sigh. . .
There are days like today, when I wonder if I will ever write anything good again.
I used to think that writers who felt that way were just lazy whiners and needed to get to work and stop blathering about their "muse" and feeling the need to decamp to some exotic locale to find "it" again.
But I wouldn't mind heading out to some completely unfamiliar spot to jar my sluggish brain into spewing out something worthwhile once more.
No wonder Hemmingway was a lush.
I think about working on my novel. I even touch the notebook it's in, lift the cover a bit from time to time. It sits at my left elbow the whole time I am here in front of the computer, inches away. It languishes, neglected and forlorn, while I play endless games of Zuma, look up "bergamot" to see what the heck they put in Hub Man's Earl Grey tea. (It's a sour orange by the way), look at Shelties on Petfinder.com, give the cat a squeeze as he saunters under my nose on his way to his basket on my desk for a snooze, and finally while I write this angst ridden drivel and publish it on the internet so EVERYONE knows I have lost my marbles, and beyond that, am not re-writing my novel.
There are days I have half a mind to burn it.
I heard once that Stephen King's wife pulled the manuscript of "Carrie" out of the wastebasket one day. She told him to finish it. She was right. But listen.... I understand why he threw it in the trash. It was driving him crazy! He wanted to put himself out of his misery! Burn the sumbitch! Get it out of my sight!
You go Stephen. Power to the Uninspired.
Sigh.
Slump.
Grump.
Maybe if I had a purple pen with sparkly ink I could finish my book.....
(Oh like THAT is going to change anything. You are undeniably at your most whiney, obnoxious, and annoying today there cupcake. You are getting on my last nerve. Here, I'll GET the wastebasket for you. Better yet, I'll empty out the shredder bucket and you can shred that pile of crap right now. We'll start a fire in the backyard and burn it. We'll put out its tribal torch after we vote it off the island. Whatever suits your indecisive fancy. . . But will you please just shut UP about it already? I'm beggin' ya.)
Pout.
Mean old ( ).
I need chocolate.
I'm going to go bake brownies.
Hummpfff.