I need the world

I'm stuck again.

I really should get out more. I'm realizing that the lack of outside stimuli - even just quick jaunts to the grocery store or lengthy stays in the library - is damaging my ability to create interesting characters. For that matter, it's also crippling my ability to come up with ideas for scenes.

It would seem that I need the world around me.

On another note, I do believe that I need to get Season 1 of the television show Supernatural. I'm not sure which season is currently rerunning for the summer, but I'm finding it interesting. I'm also feeling lost. I don't understand a lot of the references to past episodes. I have two options: buy them as the come out and catch up, or stop watching all together.

I think I'll buy the seasons as they're released.

June 10

Fix what’s been broken, or rip it all down and start fresh? I think that’s what it really boils down to. But that’s a difficult question.

The threads of the stories that were in progress have been lost. I don’t know how to get any of them back.

Starting fresh feels like a betrayal to not only myself, but to the stories that I had been writing, too.

And the characters. That’s an entirely different problem. Do I banish them all to oblivion while I create all new characters? Or just take the same characters and start entirely new stories?

June 9

Yeah. So, um, the nefarious villain wanders around rearranging things and generally messing things up until finally she, through a series of devious and malicious acts, pisses off the Muse (who gets introduced later) and spirits away the wordsmith.

That’s the long and short of it.

Basically, the bitch seriously screws things up and leaves the writer’s world in chaos.

Fun stuff.

How does the writer recover? I don’t know. I’ve never figured it out. I’m not sure it can be repaired. So… what? Do I continue trying to repair? Or do I finish ripping it down and start over?

June 8

The only sounds in the room were a frantic sounding beeping from the computer and the steady sounds of soft breathing.

The cause of the noise was plain to see. At the desk, bathed in the soft glow of the light, was the writer – or more precisely, the writer’s inner wordsmith - sleeping on the keyboard. Completely unaware of the intrusion, let alone the malicious intent of it, the wordsmith slept on.

The woman’s lips twisted into a smirk. She turned and began to walk the perimeter of the writer’s den, pausing periodically to rearrange the books on the shelves.

June 7

Once inside the room, the intruder paused again to take a look at the private world of the writer.

It was cast in a warm glow from the ever-burning desk lamp. Neat and orderly, everything was in its place so as to be found with barely a distracted thought given to needing it, let alone finding it. The décor was simplistic at best but the writer had made it so intentionally; a desk and chair, lamps, scores of books, a computer on the desk, few pictures on the walls. It was a place for working, not a place for distractions.

June 6

She paused in an open doorway. The warm glow coming from a small desk lamp only dimly lit her features as she stood at the door to the writer’s sanctum. With green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, she could have been any woman in the world.

Her hesitation was short-lived, however, and she soon overcame her fear of being seen. Or maybe it was the fear of being recognized for what she truly was and her image being shattered. Whichever it was, it was disregarded quickly enough and the seemingly everyday woman stepped into the private world of the writer.

June 5

Darkness clung to a shadowy figure skulking about the writer’s home late one night. The headlights from a passing car swept across a window and caught the figure in profile. The woman, a little taller than average and carrying some extra weight, pulled away from the beams of light and moved further into the home she invaded.

The woman moved slowly, taking her time to handle and sometimes rearrange items she passed. A few things found their way into the bag she carried slung over her shoulder. More than a few times things were carried to the nearest trash receptacle.

June 4

The worn down word wrangler heaved a sigh at the gray light spreading across the window.

Vague memories from the night before taunted a groggy mind. Close, but not close enough for capture, and as the veil of grogginess slowly lifted, they took flight like elusive butterflies.

What was the problem? Where was the wordsmith that could mold the written word into such delightful descriptions? Where was the story teller that could twist plots and throw red herrings with the best of them? Hiding? Lost? On vacation without notification? Kidnapped by some nefarious enemy?

Now that would be a twist…

June 3

The budding novelist listened to the storm rage on through the morning and paced off countless steps. An entire box of pencils was chewed through during that time; a dozen pencils meeting their doom between the teeth of a frustrated writer.

Nothing came. No words strung themselves together. The wordsmith was empty. The word slinger was out of ammunition.

Staring out the window again, angry questions began to rise. “Why can’t I write any more? What’s wrong with me??”

But it really came down to just one very simple question.

To borrow a phrase, “Why are the words always gone?”

June 2

I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment’s gone…

“Oh, wait. That’s already been done.” The struggling author sighed and picked up a fresh pencil. The old pencil had been chewed in half during the previous hour. The disenchanted story-teller rose and began to pace.

“How am I supposed to write an original story when all the stories have already been told? There’s nothing left worth to tell… is there?”

Stopping by the window, the frustrated writer sighed again and stared blankly out at the rain. Somewhere deep inside there was a story waiting to be released.

June 1

The beginning of June is here and still I’ve written nothing. I’d say “I suck”, but I know it’s not true. I’ve been busy. There have been pressing matters to deal with, obligations that needed to be met.

I close my eyes late at night and the characters come to life, playing out their stories against the backdrop of my closed eyelids until I’m lulled to sleep. Sometimes the sleep is peaceful, sometimes it’s fitful.

The morning comes and draws another sigh from me. I can’t recall the stories from the night before. I’m still disconnected from the writer inside.