Undone Transformation

Well, then, interesting morning I’m having.  It’s cold, but not that cold–not the Vortex crap that’s hitting the middle of the country.  Oh, sure, it’s six degrees outside, but I can walk three-quarters of a mile in it.  Like I did yesterday.  And the day before, when there was ice on the ground and the walkway in front of the Capitol decided to do a Tonya Harding on my right knee.  Why me?  Why?  Why?

Last night was a mess.  I started out with such high hopes of getting something done–and then turned into an emotional basket case.  I suffered a complete emotional breakdown over something that occurred back in May of last year, but someone has decided to go all passive-aggressive on me and find a million ways to call me a bitch without, you know, calling me a bitch.  I had a good fifteen minute crying jag over it, which is something I haven’t had in a long time, and while it was good to get all that out of the way, it completely ruined my mood for writing.

Emotions are good for writing.  You can feel them in your words as you bring them forth, and if you’ve gotten them right you can sense the feedback as they take shape on the page.  I’ve had a couple of stories where I was crying my eyes out as I finished the last few paragraphs, because what I was writing affected me that way.

But this was an external and personal situation, and when those hammer you it can screw up your process terribly.  Normally I just shake that stuff off–normally.  Last night I couldn’t.  Or, I should say, I was starting to shake it off when I received a phone call from someone who wanted to know the whys and wherefores of a charge on an American Express card.  I’ll go so far as to say that it seems like the only time they contact me is to talk about money, or bills, or bills and money, and if there’s something I don’t need it’s that bullshit.

All this means it was nine-thirty before I could get to where I wanted to write.  I didn’t get much out–finally count was only four hundred and fifty-five words.  I tried for five hundred, but it wasn’t there.  Like all the good feelings I could have used last night, the ability to sling the story wasn’t possible.  After getting a thousand or more words a day for the last week or so, I had to admit the writing fairies were not looking out for me, because it was highly likely they were sitting in a bar somewhere close getting hammered instead of heading into the cold and helping out us poor, struggling writers.

Tonight I’ll have to try harder.  I sound like Dora the Explorer there:  “Can you say ‘try harder’?  Say it!  Say it again!  LOUDER!”  Enough.  Anyone can come up with excuses for why you couldn’t; I need to work through that and say why I could.

Hey, it’s Wednesday.  If I get through this next scene, I can do something naughty.