Today was not a good writing day. I produced nothing.
I made some notes. I made more notes, etched out the scenes that won’t turn or shift as I’d like them, but…still, I produced nothing.
Moving forward. I tell myself things like, “If so-and-so can write a first draft in a weeks time, then certainly I can accomplish a rewrite in that time.” And I think, “if a gun was put to my head, and the threat was ‘finish it or die’ — would I?”
Well? Would I?
Sighing. This is not what is bothering me. It’s other stuff. More childish stuff. Unrequited love stuff from a long ago past that even then was strictly within the confines of my imagination and not at all a real possibility. Ridiculous to admit, but I’m still pining over what can never be, what would never be, what could never have happened — not ever.
But since I can’t shake it, I think I want to write a story about it. I’d like to start on it now, but — I have to finish this rewrite first. And I want to do it well, not half-assed.
The day is not over. I must finish this script.
To the left, she reaches for her glass of cheap wine atop of the old filing cabinet serving as a side table. She clicks on “publish” and closes the site. All that remains is her open file of a story. She stares blankly at the tangled mess of a so-called script. She thinks to herself, “who the fuck cares? Then answers herself, “No one. Not one fuck.” Yet another self-absorbed blogger with nothing of interest to disclose, teach or advise.
Now. Get back to it.