Why does it always seem that I really get the notion to do work when it’s just too damn late? Right now I’m sitting in bed poking away on the netbook trying to decide if I want to attempt to work on a story I’ve already started or start something new, which I have a habit of doing far too often so I never actually finish anything.
Hardly a day goes by that I don’t make a commitment to go somewhere without the distractions of home to sit down and do some serious writing, whether it be blog or book. That quickly turns into a ritualistic dance I perform. Load bag with netbook and array of power cords, put on shoes and accessories, throw bag on shoulder, walk to the door, turn around, go back to bedroom, stare at cable box, head back to door and make it out to the car, go back inside. This jig, with its many steps and nuances, can go on for nearly an hour. And yet I’m still overweight with all that walking.
So what’s the issue? What prevents me from just getting in that car and going to the library or perhaps a cafe or book store? Why does it seem that my testicles are lassoed to my bedpost? Perhaps it’s the fact that I often barely have money to keep my car fueled. Maybe Family Guy has given me a complex about being “that guy with his laptop at Starbucks.” Or maybe I’m just really fucking lazy. I hope it’s the money thing.
What is it about writing fiction that seems to bring my brain to a halt? I’d like to think I’m not that stupid. I mean, hell, have you read Twilight? You’d think if she can do it then anyone can. So what is the problem? A-ha! Fear. Fear that I’ll never be as good as I’d like to think I can be. That’s the issue. It’s that fear that all of these seemingly amazing ideas and stories floating around in my head will never equal up to themselves when put on paper. Or LCD, as it were.
Everything feels so well formed, but when written down they just come out a garbled string of images that are never vivid enough. They never flow out of the screen with the emotion my characters feel. Thesauruses can’t fix everything, I guess.
I used to think that with the right desk on which to write it would all come out. As if the wood were some conduit for creativity. Yet there my massive desk, salvaged from some school where I assume a portly teacher with short, springy hair sat and watched her students from behind black horn-rimmed glasses, sits covered with a television, cable box, a Wii and a smattering of weekly magazines. The underside is so crammed with boxes, I couldn’t put a chair up to it if I wanted. My conduit is an entertainment center.
So how do I find my conduit?