Oh, no, it’s Friday morning, and I’ve already had two cups of coffee, and I’m dressed and everything, and the house is quiet, since the son is at school and the spouse is at work, and things should be percolating (not just the coffee) in my brain because it’s the only time I have to be creative, not counting the times I have to make up Adventure Stories For Pokemon and explain How I Managed to Make Lasagna Without Lasagna Noodles or just WHY I have so many books.
And I got nothing. I am still toiling away on my three chapters and synopsis, they’re both almost done, but I am fried. Not good-fried, like a french fry or a deep-fried Milky Way bar (yes, a local restaurant offers those. No, I have never been so confident or depressed to order one). Bad-fried, like ‘where is my head?’ fried.
So now what? Hm. Of course I’ve got some writing triggers, like sitting at the computer and turning OFF the overhead light and turning ON the little desk lamp so there’s only a small circular glow of light on the keyboard. And lighting a candle, somehow that makes me be able to pretend I’m a Real Writer, so I Really Write when I smell the candle.
But still. It’s the end of the long week, I’m fried, and really, I got nothing.
When I get really desperate (like, um, now), I look at pictures of Clive Owen, and not just because I think he’s totally foxy. See, he’s what my hero Alisdair looks like in the chapters I’m writing. And the heroine looks like Maggie Gyllenhaal (who, coincidentally, just moved into my Brooklyn neighborhood).
And then I imagine them distrusting each other and then growing to love each other. You know–they meet, they have adventures, they fall in love and live happily ever after.
Hey, it’s not so hard after all! Thanks for the help!