An endless tunnel, no end in sight. A tunnel that is supposed to be a book. A book that is supposed to be an adventure. But it’s a tunnel. Claustrophobic, boring. Bad lighting. I think it smells bad, too. Did something die in here? Ew. Tunnel vision, it turns out: not so great. My mind wanders. Why haven’t we heard back from so-and-so about the review/proposal/agenda/funding/bid/idea? Gasp. Dear Lord, they read the book/s and hated it/them/mywriting/theconcept! My writing stinks! I knew it. Who are the fools that have encouraged me in this endeavor? Who are the morons that told me to keep going? Who are they? Seriously. I can’t remember and I want names. Yes! Names! I will put them in my book, that will be their punishment. They will wander around in my plotless blatherings, my pitiful rantings, my endlessly (Lord, why can’t they end? Just give me a climax and some falling action and END it already) pointless scribblings. I’m not a writer. I mean, geez, I use too many adverbs. My dialogues run on and on like a terrible sitcom punctuated by annoying laugh tracks. I use stupid adjectives (like, for example: stupid). My characters look at each other. They glance meaningfully. They mock me from the page. I have no unique voice. I sound like ev-er-y-body else. What do I have to say, anyway? “Hey folks, perk up. I know it’s 105 and you’re thirsty. Why don’t you lick the sweat off your arm and quick complaining?” Nice. (Another insipid adjective.) Why can’t my characters figure this out for themselves anyway? They sure are bossy the rest of the time, telling me what to write and what they should say. Suddenly they’re pliant and obedient. Suddenly they’re great listeners waiting for direction. Suuuuuurrre, until I start directing, that is. Then they’ll be all, “No, not like that.” Come on, stir up some trouble! Rock my world! Distract me from social media, email and Words with Friends. There are no snacks left in the house. I’ve been chewing the same piece of flavorless cut-rate gum for the last forty minutes. Real writers write. They don’t whine about their characters. They don’t take naps in the middle of the day. Even my dog is bored. She meandered to a far corner of the house a half hour ago. Yes, I should write about her. That would be fascinating. People love to read about how adorable other people’s spoiled pets are. That stuff is pure gold! What other great authors have written about their pets? That would be a fine topic to Google….
Great…so here’s what comes up: Pets talking about their authors. But guess what? The pets are talking about their authors and the books they’ve written. Bet they wrote those books with an ending. Yeah, because as a rule, other than that frustrating Ann Brashares novel, books have to have an ending in order to be published. Not my book. Nope, no ending in sight. Just a long, ill-lit tunnel.
Seriously, what is that smell?
Bad Writing Day
by Angela - on July 3, 2012