Just write. 

That was all he said. 

What was I supposed to write about? 

That time that I had to jump out of a helicopter because I wrote a mystery thriller, and my well-meaning but incredibly stupid agent decided to put it as nonfiction so there I was getting shot at by gang while the CIA was trying to protect me long enough to learn where my knowledge of government secrets came from? 

What was my original rant about? 

Oh yes. (I went back and read it.) That actually never happened, but I may have watched a movie like that before. 

Maybe I should write about how New Yorkers throw extravagant parties and make a big deal out really stupid things like birthdays. I’m not kidding. I went up there once and almost didn’t tell the folks I was staying with about my birthday, and they freaked out. Ordered me a last-minute cake, grabbed a B&N gift card, lit candles, the whole shebang. That’s more than my family’s ever done, and I was honestly a little more embarrassed than I was grateful. 

My poor grammar is really slowing me down… having to go back and fix all those misspelled words because I’m typing so fast because I’m trying to keep up with all the scenarios in my head that just keep coming like those fireworks over the lake, one after the other, bang bang bang. 

Maybe I should write about the man standing at the foot of my bed, the man all in black with paper looking skin and dark sunken-in bloodshot eyes and a dry smile that cracks across his face as – wait… he wasn’t smiling when I first looked at him. Dang it. Dang it! 

I’m just going to ignore him. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. He’s one of my dad’s friends. 

This is getting pretty weird, but the weirder the better! 

I don’t know how I could not write weird things, considering there’s a man in my room watching me, and I’m perfectly fine with it. I’m continuing to write as though nothing is wrong. 

I’m having the hardest time coming up with ideas for books ever since my last bestseller (a romance) when I found out my husband was cheating on me at the signing, so I decided to drop everything and move to Rome because I just needed to re-find whatever I had lost in the vague monotony of writing the same boring stories over and over again simply because they always paid the utilities while my own “love story” was up in flames and caving in right in front of me! 

Wait, not my life. Sorry. Again. 

I think I might be getting the hang of this. Writing, I mean. 

Actually I’m not, because I just remembered that all of the “greats” claim that they have no idea what they’re doing and happen to hate it most of the time because they’re so frustrated with trying to get the story from their heads onto the page. 

I’m exactly like that. In fact, I might even be a little farther along because I’m not frustrated at all. I just don’t have anything to write. 

(Photo: Patrick Fore) 

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