Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: cheese, cheese and more cheese
Reality TV: me
I've decided that I can live without being published. The absolute worst thing for me is when I lose my story. Or, more accurately, when my story gives me the finger, packs up its designer diamond and chocolate studded luggage and hops the next magic carpet to Toledo (I don't know, it's a story, it can do whatever it wants, right?). I realize the two are closely connected, especially when the little pesky monster in my head is constantly waving them in my face. You're not published because your stories suck. Duh! Simple concept, dumbass. He has hairy knuckles and smells like tangy underpants. I wish he'd go away.
We were getting along so well, my story and I, buying each other ice cream, painting each other's toenails, brushing each other's hair. But you know how it is when you start to lose faith in something. Your story starts staying out late, sleeping in until noon, eating your favorite cereal without apology. Soon you can't be in the same room together, and when you are, the moments are filled with snide remarks and dirty looks. It's inevitable at that point. If you listen close enough, you can hear the slamming of closet doors, the slap of clothes hitting the bottom of the suitcase, angry feet on the stairs, down the hall, keys, coat, door. Silence. Then it's just you and the cursor. Blinking on the quarter second, because now you have plenty of time to do ridiculous things like shuffle through the junk drawer in the kitchen for an hour, find the digital timer, swap out the battery in the DVD remote just so you can time the one thing that is forcing you to hear a Hall & Oats song in your head. Blink, she's gone, blink, oh why, blink, what went wrong?, blink*. Then you wonder how you'd look with a handful of pencils jammed in your eye.
Will I still finish my book? Yes. It'll sound like a big bag of wank, reminiscent of something you'd find in an episode of the Telletubbies. But I can't just sit around and wait. I have handfuls of other stories screaming for my attention, and I must tend to them before they get annoyed with me too.
*the author of this blog is not responsible for the emotional or physical damage resulting from getting the above mentioned Hall & Oats song stuck in your head. Though she strongly recommends slamming your head in the fridge door a few times. That sometimes makes it go away.