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Monday
December 22, 2014
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Rated: 13+ | Other | Experience | #1414430
In a nutshell....rated for safety.
I don't know why I feel compelled to write.  Maybe because it's late at night and I can't sleep and I can't stop thinking.  Not really about anything in particular.  It's just that time of night where the whole world is asleep except for me.  That time of night when you are utterly alone with your thoughts and can no longer shove them aside as you would in daylight.  That's why I'm here now, scribbling what I may in an old notebook, letting my thoughts run free, wander and meander as they wish.  I try to control them, but like many writers I know, this stuff comes in a brilliant burst of genius leaving me, the writer, to chase after it, pen and notebook in hand and screaming, "WAIT FOR MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"  Sometimes I succeed in this noble endeavor, wrestling the idea to the ground and forcing it under my command.  Other times I trip and fall on my face and the idea escapes me.  Utter failure. 

But such 'tis the life of a writer, chasing one idea or the other, begging the Muses to show you the way to your next big break, drawing your inspiration on a song or a quote or the dumbass you saw doing something stupid last week.  Sometimes, like now, it's the rambling thoughts of your uninhibited mind as you pound mercilessly away at your keyboard or scrawl unintelligibly on any scrap of paper you can find.  Maybe you sit down (as I did) to write Item A, and yet Item A is somehow replaced by Item B, something completely different than what you originally anticipated.  Frustrated, you question whether all the little snippets in your head will ever make it to story length, as you intend.  You rail over the difficulty of bringing a story to the world that isn't ready to be birthed.  Like an overdue baby ("WHY WON'T IT COME OUT ALREADY????") that is somehow underdeveloped and in need of time in the ICU.  Unfortunately, the ICU is closed, and your idea rots away in the compost heap of your subconscious.  How depressing.  (But don't compost heaps produce beautiful vegetables?  Maybe all is not lost after all.....)

As for all not being lost, the Muses lead me in another direction.  So abruptly I end this piece that I -


*Author's note - I wrote this piece to reflect stream of conciousness, that is to say, the thoughts of a writer as they struggle to write something.  Please excuse any grammatical/punctuation/etc. errors; I made them on purpose.  Thoughts generally don't come in complete sentences, and I wanted this piece to be realistic as possible.  As for the ending, I left it incomplete to show how fast an idea can come or die out.  Finally -- LAUGH!!!  It's supposed to be funny!
© Copyright 2008 Requiem (UN: beautifuldrama at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Requiem has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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