...fiction, friction

“Make it fiction,” I’m advised. “The average person can’t identify with your character because no one believes this person is real.” So in August the book becomes an unauthorized biography,[1] but writing in third person is like weird channeling, and I lapse back into the creativity of reading other people’s writing.

To me,
Abstaining from writing is not so bad, only a little depressing, which means I’m not dressing, cooking, cleaning or doing anything around the house…still. But everyone has done my job so well. T.

September canters by with a second rewrite, but the ideas come like a recalcitrant mule! I’m told agents hate books written in first person. It’s October and still the ideas balk. I’m not writing in November either. Well… unless an idea ambles past then I, with all bets, am off![2]

November, I can no longer truss up the family, so I quit cold turkey. I pluck myself away from the drudge and vow to spend more time waddling with toddlers, just for the pure joy of it.

It’s December and I can’t squeeze any more into the overflowing package of life, so I’m going to wrap it up in January, and resolve never to write again.

There go the resolutions, and I’m repeating the whole process again. Will it ever be finished? And does it matter? Truthfully, who cares, except the people who are covering for me, doing the chores and keeping house.

Reality Bite: It’s their turn. That’s Life.

[1] What could be more fictitious than that?
[2] This sentences rankles the grammar puss like no other.