If we still used typewriters — something for which I am not entirely opposed — my desk would be a mess of single sheets containing a sentence or two, maybe a paragraph or two, all cut short in the prime of life as I lost my focus or enthusiasm or both. Writing stuff is hard work. That’s why I love my blog.
(Come here, little blog, let me give you a big warm hug…)
When I come here I write until some more pushy idea comes along to interrupt the flow…which, come to think of it, is exactly what was happening earlier today at my desk.
Maybe I think too much while I am at my desk. I worry about which ex-girlfriend will be most offended. And let’s not forget elder relatives, you know, aunts, uncles and my mother. It is difficult to convince people close to you that fiction really exists unless you write about leprechauns or sex with Hollywood starlets, which, ironically, are two of the most truly autobiographical things I can do with pen and paper.
Maybe you can’t worry much about people and reputation to write successfully.
Until then, I need some purpose, some direction…maybe an assignment. My little brother Gary thinks I should stop goofing around, and goofing around is exactly what I feel like I am doing now.