I left work at a reasonable hour this evening -- that's pretty unusual for me for a Monday -- and I decided on the train ride home that I was going to sit down in my decadent air-conditioning and write. I mean, really write. So upon walking in my door and killing a bug, I nuked my Lean Cuisine and fired up the MacBook. Oh, sweet glorious love of my life -- my MacBook.
I opened my "novel." And by "novel," I mean the three written pages of nothingness I've spewed out over the last few months. Tonight, I wrote maybe six lines. Six whole lines. And now, more nothingness.
And here's what is holding me back... I think that I hate my idea. The entire event on which said "novel" is based... yep, pretty sure I hate it. I certainly never loved it. I sort of tolerated it for three pages. I briefly flirted with an idea that left a lot of be desired anyway. Now that the flirtation is old-hat, and the mild amusement I felt with my opening line -- about it really fucking hurting when you get hit by a bus -- has faded... and well, I am all-out loathing for my idea. See, the bus thing was a poor metaphor for the style of writing that I was -- at very best -- attempting. And, well, that's just stupid and weak.
I generally write out of my head. I'll sit on the train and write a paragraph or two in my head. Those very rarely see my MacBook or paper, though. I think I arrived at the whole bus thing on the train, actually. I've taken the bus here exactly three times. Don't like it much. Shouldn't write about a bus.
I'm missing my own point. It wasn't about a bus. Nevermind that.
So, since I hate this idea, and it's going nowhere slowly, I need a new one. Send help.
I want to believe I'm this writer trapped in a publicist's career with all of these great ideas that someone will one day want to publish. But not today. Today (and for the foreseeable future) I need help.