The Balloons Will Fly

It’s been so long, I think I may have forgotten how to do this . . .

I’m sitting here, telling myself “just pick a topic and go.” But that in itself is the problem. I have an abundance of raw and uncultivated fodder, and the prospect of culling the relevant and essential from the “stuff that makes me me” is moderately overwhelming. I’ve never been very good at narrowing down things. I imagine most writers contend with this persnickety character trait. Or is it just me?

When I sit down to write a scene that hasn’t quite developed, but rather spotted my imagination with colorful gems of potentiality, I can’t help but swoon, moaning, “Oh, the possibilities!” This results in a milieu of mundane and bizarre tactics and responses.

A) Check my Twitter

B) Stare at the computer screen and wait for genius to strike

C) Get a glass of water

D) Check my Facebook

E) Make a snack

F) Check my e-mail

G) Give myself a short pep-talk: “Come on, it’s easy — just write something, anything, doesn’t matter what, just write. Writewritewritewritewritewritewritewrite.”

H) Realize I’ve had a small, but nonetheless stunting, mental break

I) Practice cathartic pacing and breathing, all the while still actively engaged in tactic “G.”

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Pity’s Party — Table For Zero, Please.

It came down to a decision. When does it ever not, right? In a single year, you will make over three point seven billion decisions. Did you know that? No – I completely made that up, but the figure sounded feasible.

Everything from waking up in the morning and deciding whether or not to make your bed now, later or never, to stopping to pet the dog on the way into the kitchen, is a decision you do or do not make. Life: a sequence of choices and decisions.

I thought seriously about shaving my head this morning.

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