I’ve had a hard time focusing lately. Between commuting to DC for work, taking two grad school classes at night, and being your everyday, moderately social 30 year old single lady, I am exhausted. And a tired writer doesn’t write. Much like a hungry writer doesn’t write. Or a sleepy writer doesn’t write. This saying can easily be applied to just about anything. The problem it that I want to write. So many times snippets of character dialogue or random scenes pop into my head. I think about writing them down, but then I don’t. I’m never going to become a well-respected, self-published author at this rate.
I have begun endless personal essays and satires on dating, being single, living alone, and having a vagina. Much to my amazement, none of them are even close to being finished! How does Stephen King write so much, so quickly? Maybe I should move back over to fiction for a while. Get out of my head a bit and get into someone else’s. Create a charming love story about a girl and guy who meet on a commuter train to the big city. She’s a pack rat. He’s an OCD freak. She loves sleeping in and bathing only twice a week. He flosses at work. Will true love prevail?
Or maybe I just need a push. I have plans to go speed dating with a coworker of mine. That should prove to be inspirational. Or, at the very least, hysterically depressing. It will definitely make for a good brunch story. Two hapless females wander into a dimly lit bar with bad house music playing in the background. Neither one of them has any idea of what awaits them. Both are looking for love, but only one will make it home alive. Oh, wait. I just crossed genres. Is this a self-deprecating personal essay or creepy short story? Blood, Guts, Gore, and Love?