I’m sitting here trying to write, but nothing is coming.

This is disheartening.

Between you and me, I was looking at a new Tom Clancy book at the grocery store yeaterday (I’m not convinced that he actually writes them anymore, BTW) and I was all like, “Well I could write this crap.”

I say this while admitting that I used to read a lot of Tom Clancy when I was a young lad (The Hunt For Red October is actually a very good book).

But college has ruined me. Yes, that’s right! Now I sit here and try to think of a story and all I can think about is how bad I am at plot. Oh Plot! Such a contrivance!
But almost every book that anybody ever really cared about has a plot (This is an argueable point, but just fucking go with it, okay?)

So I am sitting here thinking things like:

It should be about a bank! Yes, yes, that’s good. They work for a bank. But there’s some time travel! Yes! That’s good! And also, there’s a scene where the protagonist attempts to bribe a baker! Hilarious! And maybe there is a strip club! Good! And . . . um . . . then something happens in Berlin! In the past! Right! This is great!

And then I look back at my notes and I think to myself, I would love to read that story, but I personally – at this moment – have no idea what it is about.

The creative process, she is so fickle.


.
.
.