So, okay, if I have actually left the house (let’s assume, for the purposes of this story, that I have left the house) then I am probably going to a place to do a thing. Right? Safe bet. And the only way I would be going to a place to do a thing is if I had to go to that place to do that thing because I had told someone I was going to be there at a certain time. Anything that could be done at any time is something I never get around to doing. So, if I am going, I am rushing, because I am not one to often be late but I am one to be barely on time and only on time because I nearly killed myself getting there. On my bike. Pedaling hard. Debating how close to get to cars around me. Hey, life isn’t going so great anyway, right? Why not turn it over to God? Sure. Cool. Fun fact: that’s when the best ideas hit me. When I’m rushing. I’m on two wheels. Both hands are engaged with either the bike’s handlebars or - worse - a steering wheel. BAM! Not a wreck. An idea. A problem I needed to solve in a story or a comedy bit comes to me. Kapow. Gotta stop. Do I stop?  Where do I write it if I do stop? You know where. There’s only one place to write it at a time like that. I WILL RECOPY WHEN I’M DEAD!!! (or when I have some downtime wherever I was headed) So here’s my point: the unconscious is real. There are people who say it isn’t. Those people are dead inside.  #wordtoyamutha
03.01.13 /13:33/♥ 2
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OK, so, you’re sitting there staring at a blank page and you have ideas and characters and you totally want to do it and you know what you want to do but there’s the Internet and that girl from high school and that DVD set of The Game of Thrones you got for Christmas and OH YEAH WRITING MAKES YOU HATE YOURSELF. Right. Story of every single time I sit down.  Sometimes I work with me. Sometimes I fight me. I always hate me thru it. Sometimes, tho, me and me get somewhere.  Eff. Writing. Eff.
03.01.13 /13:27/♥ 1
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