Last night was another bad sleep. I had hoped that I was passed the jetlag, that I had already licked it. But when I woke at 1:40 in the morning, wide awake, I checked my tongue in the mirror, and there was no sign of cherry red goodness. I don’t know what it is about that time of the morning, but my body seems stuck to it. I hope I didn’t accidentally trip an alarm setting in my brain. I’m a good programmer, but I have no idea how to manage the data structures in my gray area. I did manage to take a nap on the van ride home. My stomach was feeling a bit off, and the nap got me through the ride and relieved some of the sleep pressures (perhaps even going as far as relieving some hypothetical debt). I didn’t drink any caffeine except hot tea this morning. I am as ready as I ever will be for a full night’s sleep tonight. Two people have told me that Tylenol PM is the way to go. If things go wrong tonight, a PM’ing I will have to go tomorrow.

I’ve been working on the wedding website again. That link still points to the old version, which lacks the wedding details. The redesign feels simpler and cleaner. I hope to roll it out this weekend. Since this is my first Doolies-free weekend, I should have plenty of time. Unless I break down and buy a video game. I don’t feel the urge to do that yet, but I know it’s always there, at the edges of my consciousness, glowing with a pleasant light and soft soothing beeps, like one hears at casinos, encouraging you to put just one more coin into the slot machine. The urge waits patiently for me to reach and grab it and swing. Once I get the desire in my head, there’s no turning back. I’ll stop talking about it before these words trigger the very desire I’m trying to keep at bay. Tasty bays.

I don’t have much more to talk about. These non-caffeinated writings are not my strong suit. I’ll manage, don’t you worry. Perhaps it’s time for story? I tried. I really did. I squeezed words onto the page but my brain refused to cooperate. I’m exhausted. Did I mention that yet? Tonight will be an earlier night to bed. I can barely keep my eyelids open now. Don’t you worry: I won’t return to my eyelid and true-belief rambling. I’m much too cultured for such uncouth words.

If I can’t write it, I might as well write about where I am heading with the Unnamed Photograph Draft. Before I wrote that part, I thought I had a good idea. The story was going to be about a married couple who travelled to Taiwan at the wife’s insistence to take wedding photos. The couple had been married for a while but they never had an actual wedding ceremony. The wife read about how Taiwan was trying to encourage its tourism through these wedding photo places. The wife looks at the visit as an opportunity to fix the mistakes they made in the past, and create new memories for their future.

There are other less pleasant reasons for the trip as well. Their marriage is not doing well. I was thinking infidelity, but it could be more of a trust issue, or perhaps they’re just growing apart. The couple is looking at this experience as a way to either work through their problems. Yeah, I know. I don’t have enough planned. Who are these characters? What drives them? Do they want the marriage to work? What makes them interesting? What about motivations?

When I write a short story, I usually try to find something interesting to focus on related to the writing itself. This time I had decided to focus on obstacles. I tend to baby my characters too much. I don’t challenge them, and I have a feeling that is why I run out of things to write. Without obstacles or challenges or goals, the characters do nothing. They sit on their lazy butts—just like me!— and wait for something to happen. When nothing happens, they look to me with their large watery puppy eyes, and beg me to say something. I end up spending a paragraph describing something uninteresting, only to record an inane conversation or action-less scene, accepting that puking through words is as good a way as any to make goal. I wanted to use this story attempt as a way to improve how I torture my characters. (And torturing the characters is not the same as consternating with the characters. Consternation tortures the reader.) I want my characters to be given the opportunity to grow. And the only way you grow is through life’s decisions.

With that in mind, I wrote that first segment of the story. An old southern man narrator appeared and I decided to run with it. I knew full well that my chances of finding his voice after the first marathon session were very slim. As is my usual way, I began the story with a few paragraphs of complaints. I cut the complaints while pre-editing it. (Yes, I know I shouldn’t be editing, but I was searching I wanted to finish something with decent writing. I’m sick of Marathon-level writing. Ah, that’s my evil inner editor speaking.) I made the cuts after deciding that the narrator should be likeable, and therefore unlike David. The narrator should not spend eight paragraphs complaining, only to sit around while nothing happens to him and he does nothing (sound familiar?). I wanted him to be happy. Everyone likes a happy person. I like happy people (which explains my love for the Doolies—she’s a very happy person, usually. . .).

I’m finding it difficult to keep my eyes open. This bodes well for my sleep. Assuming the sleepiness is not one of those fake sleepiness where I wake up in a few hours feeling awake but not rested.

But with the nice old narrator and his bookish wife, I began to have worries. What possible conflicts and challenges could I throw their way? I thought about the obvious one: rain during the photo session. The photograph told us (through Doolies’s translation) that the bride the previously day had cried hysterically because the torrential rain had ruined her photo shoot. That looked like conflict to me. Then there was the relationship itself. The narrator seemed very fond of his wife. I wonder if that’s an act or if he deludes himself. I find it hard to believe that an old person would bother, but there are many superficial old people out there.

I’m chock full of ideas. Oh, wait, I mean I’m chock out of ideas. I wonder if you can be chock out of something. I need to get back to actually writing the story instead of writing about writing the story.

It’s raining outside. We were expecting a snow shower that would gradually turn to rain as it warmed. It’s good that there’s interesting weather going on here or I would have trouble making goal. The sound of the rain hitting the roof has a slight tinkling to it, as if some of it is hail. If it gets colder instead of warmer tonight, then tomorrow may be the snow day I’ve been craving. (Yesterday should have been the snow day, but I was too dedicated. I’ll happily trade a full night’s sleep for a snow day tomorrow. I’m not sure if it works that way, though.

I’m getting close. When I first wrote those words, I looked down in dismay at three paragraphs of story crude. I thought about going down and reworking those words. But after playing with words for a bit, I realized my mind wasn’t there enough to move it forward. If I wrote story, I would end up pushing words to meet goal instead of words to tell story. I’m so easily manipulated.

Word count: 1,335