The following is an excerpt of a conversation I have with myself almost every day.
This is one of those times you should be writing.
But I don’t even know where to begin!
It doesn’t matter. You’ve had this idea for days. Just start anywhere.
The character’s not developed yet. She’s boring.
And she always will be if you don’t write her down.
Borrrrinng.
Do it.
No.
Look, it’s raining. The house is relatively clean. You’re not reading anything right now. Just write a sentence.
One sentence is pointless.
Ok, write a paragraph.
I’m busy.
No, you’re not. You’re bored.
I have real work to do.
But you’re not doing it. You’re not even going to do it.
Yes, I am. And I have to beat the Bejeweled high score.
Wouldn’t you rather write this story?
You would think so, but no.
Why not?
Because it’s not defined. And it’s pointless. I have this beautifully vague thing in my head and words will just mess it up.
You don’t want to share that story?
Not really.
Why not?
Sharing stories feels like sitting in my underwear.
So, why do you spend so much time thinking about it?
Because I want to be a writer.
You are a writer.
I want to be one that people respect.
You want to be a writer who people respect, but you won’t write anything because if they read it, they might not like it, thus no respect, thus no writing. Does that seem silly to you?
No, I think it makes perfect sense.
Why not write for yourself, then?
What’s the point in that?
To sort shit out. You’re doing it right now.
I hate you.
What?
You’re the same voice that tells me I suck when I get more than five pages of anything. You’re a sadistic asshole.
No, actually. That’s you.
Um, no it’s not. I think I know the difference.
Suit yourself.
Fuck you.
.
