Diary of a Wannabe Novelist

Two am. The streets outside have finally fallen quiet. I’ve exhausted the latest offerings of my trusty DVR, and now it’s time to create. I eat an apple for energy, and drink a can of Diet Coke so my body doesn’t flop over sideways on the couch and give me curvature of the spine a few years from now. I’m finally ready…

Okay…now. Create! Brain? Are you awake? Are you ON? Where is the magic? Why isn’t the magic happening?

Frustrated, I imagine all of the fascinating, dynamic characters I’ve created. They’re sitting around me in a circle. My protagonist is sitting forward in her chair, elbows on her knees…staring at me with harsh, judgmental eyes. She’s agitated and impatient because I’m not giving her anything useful to do. “My talents are wasted here in this boring situation,” she says. “Give me a challenge. Give me someone to chase, or fight, or hell. At least give me something to read while I’m stuck sitting here in this stupid chair.”

My antagonist is mocking me. “The longer you wait to stop me, the more havoc I’ll be able to wreak,” he smiles pleasantly. Little does he know, I’m running out of ideas for nefarious deeds for him to do. “So there,” I say. “What are you gonna do about it?” Puzzled, he sits back and crosses his arms. “I’m not going to do a thing.” Damn, he’s on to me.

My love interest/supporting character is restless, pacing around the room. “Why is this room so small?” he complains. “How am I supposed to do anything cool when I can’t even stretch my legs? This bites!” I groan and roll my eyes, but then smile in spite of myself. He always seems to have that effect on people. “What else did you have in mind?” I ask him. He grins mischievously. “How about you write me a scene where I save an entire bus full of Norwegian School Girls using only a tablespoon and an orange!?” My excitement falls flat. “Nice, thanks a lot.” I say. Such a joker, that one.

Last of all, my dark horse contender for the lead steps out of the shadows where he’s been patiently standing, listening to the whole exchange. He doesn’t say anything at all. But there’s something about the way he moves, a sort of purpose in his stride. Suddenly, I understand what he wants me to do.

And the creation begins again.

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