I think the title of this blog probably says it all.
Until I started writing this post, I was spending my morning looking at a blinking cursor, hating it for mocking me with its ever ready readiness and willingness to get down all those brilliant thoughts I have.
I can't say I've had any for a while now.
Except that I did just think about my need for cake. Or cookies. Or some kind of cake-like cookies. Cake-like cookies are always brilliant.
I wish I could bake. Actually, no. I more wish I still had friends nearby who would be willing to bake for me. A couple years ago, TheHeather made me some cookies that were just perfect. All right, so she made them for my mother's holiday cookie party but they were so good, I may have decided to keep them for myself. May have, mind you. This is all just speculation.
Now I'm looking for the recipe for those cookies because I'm sure I have it somewhere. Why I need to find it, I'm not sure as all I'll be able to do with it is fan myself or get a paper cut. It doesn't seem to matter, however, because all I'm finding are my recipes for Sangria, Southern Comfort Slush and Brandy slush. Wow. This blog really does, on occasion, make me sound like a complete lush, doesn't it? Please know that I'm not. I haven't had any alcohol since my two day hangover following TheHeather's bachelorette party last August.
That's right. I said a two day hangover. And the second day, I had to go to The Store. They were amused. I was not.
Live and learn, kids.
But, once again, I'm digressing. I know, I know. What else is new?
It's just that if I'm not blogging, I'll be back to staring at that stupid judgmental cursor (yes, it is possible I am assigning some traits to the cursor that may not actually be there) and beating myself up over the fact that I'm not done with this thing yet.
Here's a current shot of my storyboard:
Each stupid little post-it is something else I need to fix. Then there are the four pages of highlighted notes on things that need attention. I thought I could go and do some of the easier ones, just so I could be working on something and toward something while letting the bigger problems sort themselves out in the back of my brain, but as it turns out, THERE ARE NO EASIER ONES. I did all of those already. All the rest involve the tearing apart of scenes and the idea of doing that is just so damn scary that I'm daydreaming about cake like cookies instead of working the damn problem.
Which is me, isn't it? I am the damn problem. I always have been. I need to stop looking at the big picture and just focus on one post-it at a time and in any other arena of my life, I can do this just fine, just not here.
If this book were writing itself, it'd be done already. If someone else were writing this book, it'd be done already. But unfortunately for this book, it got stuck with me. If I can't get my act together soon, I imagine my characters shall stage a mutiny and go in search of some other author.
When they do, I hope they find Joss Whedon.