The part of my brain that handles the writing (and, for some reason, stores info on one-hit wonder bands from the ’80s) seems to be waking up after a long and soul-crushing winter. The writing is not flowing freely. Yet. But ideas are starting to form. I like that.
I thought that my muse had, after much neglect, finally skipped town. I was even thinking about what I would put in a craigslist ad for a new one:
Must be willing to lavish praise on me.
Must be a fan of Arrested Development.
Must be open to disciplining me with a ping pong padd– nevermind.
I started a short story the other day. I am relatively pleased with the first few hundred words. But the concept is so out there (even by my standards) that it has to be handled carefully. Or, you know, I can just say “fuck it” and write it up and post it.
I have a basic outline for the new novel. I have some “scenes” mapped out. But I’m not sure about it. I think that I can make it funny, but…
Here’s the thing:
I fell in love a little with the characters in my novella.
And, frankly, I don’t like new people.
I typed that as “Anne Frankly” at first. That’s just weird.
Maybe as I keep writing, I’ll grow to like the new characters just as much. Maybe. In the meantime, I am listening to a tonne of new music during writing time. Seriously. I’ve tracked down a lot of new music this week. (Ask the friends that I am inundating with it.)
Perhaps I should take a writing break and listen to music for a while. I just thought of “The Real World: Anne Frank Edition.”
Blake, from Flint, MI, enters the diary room.
“Where to start? I’ve been here two days… Steven is the angriest token black gay guy EVER. Marissa keeps crawling out from under guys to tell us that she isn’t a whore. And Anne dives into the broom closet any time the doorbell rings. This place is fucked.”