I have these characters in my head. They have names and backgrounds and lives; they’re fleshed out and almost real. I get excited during times like these–I make lists and imagine these fictional people telling their interesting and intriguing tales inside my head. And when they’re inside my head, it’s grand. Nothing bad ever happens. The story is formed and the plotline works and all is well. Until tradition wins and I remind myself that all the above has to come out in story form. Unfortunately, this is when my creative brain declares mutiny.
Delete everything. I hate this dialogue. I hate that dumb name. Why would so-and-so even say that? Who says that in reality? Where is this story going? Am I crazy? Did I even research that topic? Who am I? Why did I fall in love with writing? Why didn’t I care about science projects and binomials? I could have chosen something else. Why didn’t I? Why did I believe Mrs. Chrytzer?
(A little history: Mrs. Madeline Chrytzer was my amazing 4th grade teacher, the woman who told me that I could write books just like the authors who wrote the books I loved to read. Wonderful woman. Of course, she becomes far less wonderful when I’m engaging in a writing-related nervous breakdown).
Why didn’t she encourage me to keep an eye on my Math homework? Isn’t she the one that put that frowny face next to that horrible grade? Yet she tells me that I can be a writer! Please! Where were her priorities? Where are my priorities? Why can’t I just give myself a chance? Why can’t I be serious about this? Why am I walking away from the laptop toward the refrigerator? Why did I bypass that apple and head for the crueller? What is happening to me?
Sigh. Will this story be written? I cannot say. Whatever happens, though, I think it’s time to find a special doctor that deals with the brain.