It is quite a thing to decide to start writing a novel. You make plans to start, get you desk together, clear you calendar, and then what? You sit and stare at the keys in some sort of self-sadist plea to begin writing that "Great American Novel" for you. But you know the words don't come without each press of the keys in the correct order. And somedays, like today, the words come ... but not about the subject of your novel. It's strange in an almost cathartic way. Maybe the muses have other plans for me today ... after all writing in a blog is still writing ... right?
It's not easy to get the jumble of plot complications and possibilities straight in your head when the rest of your life is like some cheap mid-afternoon soap opera. I find that I do some of the stupidest things when I'm in this state. I'll, for instance, start a fight with my wife ... not about money, family, or work ... but about how she's feeling. And just who am I to argue with her about how she's feeling. What kind of moron would do that?
Apparently I would be that moron. And just like Ron White said, "You can't fix stupid."
But yet I will endeavor to do just that. I will try in some feeble way to make amends with her. She is after all my best friend and confidant. What would I do without her? Well, that's apparently my writing for the day ... hope it was worth something.
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