I'm not supposed to think. I'm just supposed to write. And not look at the keys. And not worry about punctuation or spelling. So on we go.
Paste. That's what holds it together. The thoughts and the meaning and the feelings all together with the paste. Or is it paced? We must have pace to get the words down and to paint our stories. The holes get spackled at a later date after the first coat dries. No back spacing only forward thinking...
Moronic thinking-- it just eats at me-- the negatives and the paste no not paste more like glue and syrup or tar or gum. Sticky sticky notes to live by-- there's sex in them thar hills-- that's one form earlier that i thought and remarked how funny make a post it note.
You've got to keep moving. And stop yawning you're making me self conscious. Don't worry about anything at all just keep the thoughts going and the typoing going forward. Even though it hurts you have to push and get past it get past the pain and the torture and feel the way out and make it real make the writing real reel in the reader and make if all real.
I once knew a girl named Joan. I don't know her anymore. But she was in my grade school class. So was Polly. Polly wore thick glasses, but was dignified, somehow. Much like the photo of the girl I took at the California State Fair back in 1995. I don't know her real name, so I named the piece Polly.
I can't get comfortable, I need to pee, I need to blow my nose or at least wipe it as it's leaking down my lip, I'm not happy, my wrists hurt.
I'm a writer. Feel my drama.
I'm not inspired tonight. I'm doing my "homework" though. I'm writing anyway. It's like doing the scales on the piano. Not exactly making "music", but it's gotta be done if you're going to get any better at playing. So I'm jammin' up a storm tonight, just pasting and copying and baloneying (or is that bolognaing?) by way through the page, getting it down. Whatever it is.
How about a riff on lunchmeat? Nah. Too greasy. Would mess up the keys. Of both the computer keyboard and a piano.
I want to wow, and I want to, now. But now is more ow than wow.
This is torture! Perhaps I'd be better off wringing my hands for the next twenty minutes. Well, that would be better than wringing my brain any longer. I'm getting a headache.
To go with my wrists-ache, my backed-up bladder, my stiff neck... Maybe I need to see a doctor?
Get real. You've just got procrastinitis. The cure for which is action.
Roll camera. Quiet on the set! Lights! And...