The Story is Killing Me
I have been sitting on the same spot on the couch off and on all day and now my butt aches. I have been chewing the same piece of gum for several hours now and my jaw aches. I am hunched, like a ridiculous fool, over this computer and I ache and ache and ache.
It’s the story.
It’s killing me.
I’m writing it into a deep, ugly hole.
So, I put it away.
Granted, I have taken some breaks today. I took a lovely little walk. I ate din-din with my family. I finished a book. I lifted weights (not too many and not too long, but still I lifted them). I had a doctor’s appointment. I watched two episodes from the second season of Lost. And now I’m boring you. I’m boring myself. I am fried-ola.
Anyhow, this is why I struggle with writing fiction. It’s a beast. It could always be better and better and better.
I don’t think this is what I want to write about anymore.
I’d like to write about my doctor’s visit. But, you know what. I can’t. I have to get away from this computer.
Away… away… away……………………………………………..
