Plot is killing me. Or, rather, the lack of plot is killing me.
I suppose I can partly blame the great books I’ve read. I read Mieville and then look at my paper and wonder how I could possibly come up with something as deliciously weird as The City and the City, or as novel as Embassytown. Nevermind Murakami. It just doesn’t occur to me to mix talking cats, Johnny Walker, and the Colonel.
I wish it did.
My mind wants to twist that way. It willingly traipses along with writers who imaginate the stories that I love. But ask my mind to come up with a qool story on its own? It balks. Takes a nap. Starts thinking about dandelions.
And then my creative spirit has to wash her hair. “Not tonight,” she told me last night. “I’m rather tired, and my big toe hurts.”
I am tired of this attitude. I don’t even think her big toe does hurt.
Here’s the rub: I KNOW I have it in me. Underneath this obsession for clean hair and mental naps lurks a dazzling writing warrior woman. She’s smart, and intellectually sexy. She’s clever. And she never, ever washes her hair.
Well…. except on Tuesdays.
Coming up next: So what am I doing about it?
pencilhugger 