The Bloody Doors Off

I have the place to myself for several hours, and want to write.

But I’m dry.

I suppose it’s a step in the right direction, wanting to put words on paper. I have a story I want to tell. But it’s stuck inside my head and the characters are refusing to play nice tonight.

Maybe I need to set goals. Something to work towards. I create my best work (IMO) when I’ve got a deadline. But anything I impose, at least tonight, is going to feel manufactured. There are no stakes involved.

Even this post feels labored. I’m making myself write this in an attempt to spark some creativity.

But no. It’s not happening.

That’s the part I hate about the writing process. The lack of inspiration. When I’m in the moment, the words flow like water over stones. At first the surface is rough and jagged, but given enough time it smooths the words into plot and dialogue and carry me forward. But the initial waves crash into the rocks and splash the shore, sink into the dirt, and make mud.

That’s where I’m at. Muddy waters. Murky, dank thoughts that creep inward and erode the shore of my imagination.

I’d kill for a line of dialogue right now. Something to spark a conversation between the characters. I’ve written two and a half pages, but it abruptly stopped. The same thing happened with the first draft of Mercy/A Song for Rachel. And that stalled for over a year. I’m determined not to let that happen again.

One way I try to break the dam is by soundtracking the story, finding appropriate music to set the mood. Right now I’ve got an hour and 30 minutes bookmarked.

But it’s not helping tonight.

And so I go looking for distraction.

Wish me luck.