6:5

The author sat perched at the counter for his lunch break and polished off a turkey-and-bacon sandwich. He had a pile of work waiting on his desk and a couple of long days facing him. As a result all he really could think of was a sort of pathetic self-pitying series of excuses about why he shouldn’t be trying to write. He already missed a couple of weekend days and was in danger of failing to keep the daily posts going.

Why did I ever come up with this stupid idea? It seemed so simple: just write every day. But then it became a story with characters and continuity — although he admitted to himself it was more usually characterized by a lack of continuity. Earl had warned him, his mother was against it, his editor was too busy to meet the stupid schedule, his loyal readers questioned the characters and it was summertime, dammit!

He had holidays planned, courses to take and summer boozing to do. There wasn’t enough time for writing every day. Would everyone else (all three of them) mind if he took weekends off? Or maybe allowed a few funny pictures with a caption? That had worked for Earl, and this was basically all his fault anyway.

And who the hell could remember what the damn characters were doing anyway? All over the bloody place and no plot outline in sight. He might as well be wandering through a labyrinth with a blindfold.

Not to mention the stupid messages and paperwork that were cropping up as a result of all the ridiculous levels of story. Or were those just dreams? Doesn’t matter. If I’m so far gone that I’m dreaming about this thing, then it’s time to move on. Take up sudoku or petit point, and realize that a writer has to think, not just peck away at a virtual keyboard in between sandwiches and at coffee breaks.

That’s it. I’ve decided. I’ll just start again; new rules, new ideas; I’ll just make this easier and it’ll all be good.

…