I’m not going to add “…and better than ever” (that’s a thing people say, right?) because that would be a lie
But I’m here. And maybe it’ll stick this time.
I’ve been trying to get back to my blog for months without success. But since I rose from the dead on September 20 (before that I had been missing since May), I’ve posted nine times. I am a little concerned about what I’ve been posting. Five of those eight are entirely about my fucked up life. One of them is partially about my fucked up life. So I am at least 61% fucked up.
[Yes, I fucking did the math. I was, am, and always will be a math nerd. Speaking of math—can anyone get me a job doing math? Using Excel to do math? Anything? Anyone?]
I suppose saying I’m back may be a lie because I’m only posting today to say I’m back without actually saying anything of any importance. Not that I’m implying that anything I say is all that important. It’s probably not.
Unfortunately, since I’m 61% fucked up, I think most of my posts will continue to revolve around my fucked-up-ness. (Yes, I’m making up words now.) What I wish I could post is new fiction and new poetry. But my brain isn’t allowing that. Yes, I speak of my brain like it’s a separate entity. Probably because I wish it was. It would be easier to trade it in for a better model.
Does anyone have a genius solution to my writing problem? I think I’ve mentioned before that I’ve got lots of ideas and lots of scenes written down. But I’ve not been able to use any of them to come up with an entire plot for a whole story. It doesn’t have to be a novel or anything. Short is okay. But I want a real plot. Whatever the hell that means.
My real problem is this: I write romance so the entire story is basically how the two meet and how they end up together. I’m good at beginnings. And I’m great at writing the characters meeting and ending up together. But I’m not great at writing enough plot in between those things to make it a whole story. I have trouble introducing enough obstacles to keep it interesting.
I crave the happy ending so much that I don’t want to write problems. I have so many of them in my real life that when I immerse myself in writing fiction, I want fewer problems. Or none. Maybe it’s painful for me to write bad things. I was actually crying when I wrote this one scene last week… because my main character was crying. I was so anxious until I kept writing and resolved the issue. Of course, then everything was great and I had nowhere to take my story.
Clearly, my real life is ruining my writing.
Maybe I should try to write poetry again. That might suit my feelings of sadness and despair.
• • • • •
But how can I be sad with these two majestic humans?
Easy. They are not in the room with me. If they were, I would not be writing this.
p.s. — Unrelated: Don’t you hate when you try to help someone and you end up feeling like you’ve made everything worse instead? And don’t you hate when you know you’re doing the right thing, but someone gets mad at you for it? I know I’m being a bit cryptic, but I just can’t go into detail on this.