People say that when you don’t know what to write about, it’s somehow helpful to write that you don’t know what to write about. That might be sound advice, but not advice I’ve ever followed–usually when I write the words flow me like Bologna through a billy goat on a Tuesday morning in the eerie month of November on the Scottish highlands. The problem I have, typically speaking, is that of making sense. I can write on and on for pages and produce senseless drivel out my wazoo, but when I want to make something beautiful, that I know is beautiful, and hopefully that other people will know is beautiful, too, I draw a blank.
I’ll write some, but then I’ll think, “Oh, this is bad. It’s not share-worthy–I wouldn’t read this stuff to my worst enemy.” I freeze up, and wonder what good and beautiful even mean, anyway. Can something you make up be beautiful? Is that the point of fiction, not to make something believable but something pretty? I really hope it is, because I’m bad at making things seem believable. I think whatever bone you need to make things believable is missing from my physicality.
On the bright side, I’m really good at making pretty things. Once, I made a Phantom of the Opera sock puppet. That fellow got me out of many a rough spot…But, oh, it appears that I’m rambling again. It happens. I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier because (in all honesty) I don’t know what to write about.