Crap. I mean...crap.

Well, I know - I'm supposed to be writing about something this morning. I thought I had a topic lined up last night, but the Valkyrie (aka: my muse) got pissed and chased it away. 

So: Crap. What to write about. 

Here I sit, broken hearted.
Tried to write, couldn't get started.

Hah! Not what you expected, was it? Yeah - I try stupid stuff sometimes to get things flowing. Actually, my entire second manuscript started by thinking (and echoing in words) that annoying habit of hitting the same key on a piano over and over, with a half-second pause in between. 

Yeah - I started it like this:

One... Two... One... Two... 

And before I knew it, I was off to the races. It always intrigues me, the things that get our writing glands juiced up and ready for keyboard kombat... I frequently ask other writers how they came up with an idea, what made them start, how did they get the first few sentences on paper. We all have different methods and means, but in the end, it comes down to just sitting your ass in a chair and WRITING. 


If I were going to be completely honest (which I am, to a fault and without much tact), the actual verbal vomit part comes easy. Once I get going, once I pick up the trail my muse has left me, I can ramble on for hundreds, thousands of words. Part of it may be for total shit, part of it may only make sense to a crack smoking toad, but part of it will always be worth keeping. It's the space between the words that matters - the thoughts and images and questions drawn out by whatever I spewed like...  Well, the only 'spew' analogies I can think of are too gross and disgusting for this early on a Saturday morning. 

Sometimes it works - sometimes it doesn't. The point is, it gets me writing SOMETHING. Which beats staring at a blank screen.

Why yes, this is a little gratuitous Depp action.
What the fuck is wrong with that?

So, something I write may start like this:

"When Donny left, it was pretty much expected that Andie would fall apart. Really, really fall apart. They’d been together since college. Almost four years. They were talking about getting married. At least, she was talking about it. He would just listen, nodding his head while studiously not commenting. So when he left, when he packed his things while she was at work and moved out without even leaving a note; she went a little nuts."

And before long (but with several edits) becomes this:

"It’s the little things in life that make the biggest difference. Being five-minutes late for the job interview. Missing the other guy’s car by two inches. A quarter teaspoon too much salt in the soup. Big things are easier to detect, easier to plan for. Easier to accept. 

It’s the overwhelming force of the larger events that makes them more recognizable. You know something big is going to or has happened, so you allow yourself the time and the space to cope with them. But the little things? No freakin’ way. They just pile up, like grains of rice or flakes of snow, until the whole thing breaks lose and tears up your life as it plummets down the slope. 

So, when Donny left, it was pretty much expected that Andie would fall apart. Really, really fall apart. They’d been together since college. Almost four years. They were talking about getting married. At least, she was talking about it. He would just listen, nodding his head while studiously not commenting. So when he left, when he packed his things while she was at work and moved out without even leaving a note; she went a little nuts.  

She pulled the few things he left into a pile in the back yard, added all the pictures and mementos of their time together, dumped the oil from one of the Tiki torches on top and threw the match. She danced the shandy around the blaze, tipping back the bottle of Fireball until she was good and drunk, then passed out on the grass as the embers blew softly all around her. 

Yeah. She was pissed."

See how that works? You start with the tiniest, most obscure thread. You embellish, adding, subtracting, playing around with placement, tense, voice and other 'craft' tools and before you know it, you have a whole new story in the works! And as eager as I am to watch Johnny Depp, or Christian Bale or drink Scotch and dream about Johnny Depp or Christian Bale; I'm a writer. I gots to write. I get real bitchy when I don't. And my muse get's all pouty. Trust me - that's not a pretty sight!

Oh, and by the way, on my search for the perfect gifs for this post, I was horribly maimed and assaulted by A FULL PAGE OF TAYLOR FUCKING SWIFT gifs! GUH - my eyes! My eyes! They're burning!!!!

(See OMG, I Fucking Love This! for interpretation if needed, with kudos to Kelly and Valerie)

Now, for some fave tunes before I rush back into reality. Happy Saturday!