Nothing more depressing than a blank page. Nothing more bothersome than a quiet room with no story or voices in my head. Darkness pours in through the patio door window and I am too lazy to get up and go close the blinds. It was a sunny day today.
One would think my description would be that of, “glimmering rays of warmth embracing my arms and neck … soothing away the recent snowfall debacle, and ushering me into a few spare moments of joy before the real winter hits.” Not so. Instead, my inner self forced the following into my head, as I scanned the scenery and looked for another angle that would push my story along:
The fickle sun’s rays teased me into seeing what the world had turned into these past few days. I had not been tempted at all to open the curtains or draw the blinds. What point was there to watch, as shadows covered the land and temperatures made it clear – nature was pushing us to fear what she could do if our technology failed and our manufactured heat disappeared. But now I could tell that, if spring and summer never came (a very real possibility in my depressed state), our paths would be muddy and austere; sparse plains of nothingness would engulf us and smother us in severity. No love, no joy, no amount of pleasantries could make this landscape seem hopeful. My eyes glazed into thought as the sunlight danced upon my heart’s grave. “Come out,” it taunted me, “hurry before the story ends and I hokey-pokey myself around.”
“Fuck-You,” I said to the sun. I shut the blinds and poured myself a drink.
I searched and searched for words I could feel good about writing in the continuation of this damn mystery story I’m into. And these are all I could find. Somewhere in the story, I’ll have Malone break into this little diatribe. Meanwhile, what will motivate the reader to like the characters enough to care? Who murdered the family and why? What will happen to the little boy, and what is his name? I wish I were invested more in this story and these characters. If I shovel out the required words, I’ll have a book, but I wouldn’t want to read people with whom their writer doesn’t even find an affinity. Perhaps I’ll use this initial “novel” to test the self-publishing waters, learn the systems with a piece I’m not concerned about breaking or sharing.
If you are an aspiring writer like me, and want to watch the gory details of a book, either being born or dying before it’s time – stay tuned, Dear Reader. I can’t, in good conscience, commit to finishing this novel. But I will continue to bore, complain, whine, splatter more parts of the storyline, and (in general) fight to keep this dream alive, after long dark days of other important work and a tired soul.