Come on, keyboard! Make words. They don’t have to be stellar. I’ll fix it later. Give me some bones to build on, edit, tweak. Something. Anything. Let’s go. Start typing. I before E except after C. You know, words. I need some.
The cursor stops blinking after a while. Like it gives up on you. Like it’s flat-lining or something. Blip, blip, blip, blip, bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
OK, let’s think. Why is someone trying to kill my main character? I worked it out the other night. It was midnight, I scribbled some notes. Let me see what I wrote. Yep. Completely illegible. I think this says ‘director.’ Right. OK, that makes no sense whatsoever. So much for midnight inspirations.
Edit. I’ll edit that chapter I wrote last week. OK, it’s more like three paragraphs. Ugh. This is terrible. Is the whole book this bad? Maybe I’ll minimize this and research murder weapons. Oh look, an article about somebody who ate oatmeal for a week. What did they learn? Answer – nothing interesting. Who writes this crap?
Oh yeah, I was writing. Or not writing. Words. I need words.
So, someone wants to kill my character. Who, exactly? Ugh. I do, right now. Die! If you’re not going to talk to me, just die. But how do I kill her? Let me research that on-line. Oh look, an article about what women over forty should never wear. Because Popsugar is the god of all fashion choices and I must conform to whatever they decide is fit for me to wear. Tomorrow I shall wear a bedazzled message t-shirt and look fabulous doing it.
What am I going to wear tomorrow? Did I put those clothes in the dryer yet? I should do some ironing. Maybe I’ll just buy some new clothes. I haven’t gambled with on-line clothes shopping in a while. No, wait, I need to get at least one paragraph down.
Damn. The cursor just died on me again. Ok, I’m calling it. Time of death, seven thirty.
The cursor stops blinking after a while. Like it gives up on you. Like it’s flat-lining or something. Blip, blip, blip, blip, bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
OK, let’s think. Why is someone trying to kill my main character? I worked it out the other night. It was midnight, I scribbled some notes. Let me see what I wrote. Yep. Completely illegible. I think this says ‘director.’ Right. OK, that makes no sense whatsoever. So much for midnight inspirations.
Edit. I’ll edit that chapter I wrote last week. OK, it’s more like three paragraphs. Ugh. This is terrible. Is the whole book this bad? Maybe I’ll minimize this and research murder weapons. Oh look, an article about somebody who ate oatmeal for a week. What did they learn? Answer – nothing interesting. Who writes this crap?
Oh yeah, I was writing. Or not writing. Words. I need words.
So, someone wants to kill my character. Who, exactly? Ugh. I do, right now. Die! If you’re not going to talk to me, just die. But how do I kill her? Let me research that on-line. Oh look, an article about what women over forty should never wear. Because Popsugar is the god of all fashion choices and I must conform to whatever they decide is fit for me to wear. Tomorrow I shall wear a bedazzled message t-shirt and look fabulous doing it.
What am I going to wear tomorrow? Did I put those clothes in the dryer yet? I should do some ironing. Maybe I’ll just buy some new clothes. I haven’t gambled with on-line clothes shopping in a while. No, wait, I need to get at least one paragraph down.
Damn. The cursor just died on me again. Ok, I’m calling it. Time of death, seven thirty.
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