Look for the spark. I’m waiting for the caffeine to take effect. I need to write more words. I have the story planned out, I just need to put the words down. As usually happens after I plan, I don’t feel like putting the words down. Why do I do this to myself? Not that my plan was that interesting or original, but at least it was something I could latch on to. Fuck, this is annoying. Such high hopes and such low expectations. All it happens with high hopes and low expectations. I have people counting on me. I need to get to it and stop worrying about quality and just write something. It’s the 2k words I have to worry about and get done.

And yet I don’t do anything. I sit and wait and look around and hope for inspiration. I’m relaxing my body, relaxing my eyes and letting things flow through me. I’m hoping they’re good things and not the crap that usually flows through me. I have little hope and little in the way of anything that could help me get through this. But I’m okay with that. How can I not be?

The words feel empty again, the story even more so. I keep hoping that I can punch through the emptiness, find something that is still there. Nothing waits for me through that rubber wall. I’m putting words down. I lost hope that any of this will be useful. Where is this coming from? Where am I going? Empty reading and empty thinking. Why do I not have big thoughts. Write something, fucker.

I play with the first two paragraphs, changing tense, changing characters, and nothing happens. No spark no movement no nothing. Everything eludes me. I’m used to it by now. I don’t know why it always surprises me. There’s nothing inside me to push it forward, so why should I be so surprised when it remains idling when I push on the gas.

I guess I should wait and see if anything comes out. I hate myself for this shit. I can’t stand the ride where I grow and how come I can’t wait for the last of the bad things, there are so many bad things. I had hopes for something, something my deep inner voice could latch onto. That’s right, close your mind, don’t think about anything, let things think about you. THEORY. That’s the rise of the last late night hero. Why can’t I open the last for the best in the world. There is nothing but random words that rise over the peaks of the righteousness. But can’t they see where I want to go for the last of the mine of crazy people. I tend to spend time on the righteous. Why can’t any of these words move me forward. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit with a large fucking stick.

Addendum: I did manage to get a few words out. Nothing exciting or interesting but somewhat story moving. I’m not done with it, but I thought I’d post these words of discouragement, these consternations and bad musings, just to show something between two bad doodles. I guess painful consternations for me are better than nothing. Here’s to late nights and long flights and arriving home and thinking too much to sleep. As for the title, I'll hopefully get to that when I finish the real words I was trying to write.