It’s been awhile since I’ve put down the keyboard for the pen. There’s something relaxing about forming letters with a pen. It feels artistic, even if you write nothing of value and say nothing of merit. You loose yourself in forming the lines and curves of the letters and words. Editing is not worth the effort; instead, you concentrate on forming the word—no need to plan or worry about where the thought is heading. Of course, eventually these curved lines must be transferred into electrical bits. All creative processes eventually come down to mundane actions. The act of creating allows one to live.

I started this musing while watching my neighbor create a sketch of his wife and himself standing on a beach. He’s a good sketch artist, in the sense that the sketch looks like the photo. I miss the days when creation was difficult. How easy it would have been to scan that photo in and convert it to a sketch, a water painting, or a faux-modern art.

That’s not really what I wanted to talk about. I had no thoughts, revelations, or theories to share. I wanted to just draw letters on the page.

I have been tired lately. I have traveled the last three weekends and I think it (fatigue) has caught up to me. I led it on a happy chase, but tag, I’m it, now. My headaches have been acute lately, more so than in a long time. My changing sleep patterns, poor eating habits, and lack of gym going—which is begging to change now that I hired a new trainer—have created an awkward stew in my brain. I am hopeful that it will pass as with the seasons

I’m stuck on my story. My lapses in writing it have followed my musing lapses. I’m at the end of the first scene trying to see where it will go. If you remember, the first scene culminates in a heated exchange between the saleswoman and Stan and Janet about their purchase of a painting for their apartment. The salesperson is trying to sell them a timeshare presentation that will cut down the price of the painting (the gallery is owned by a massive hotel chain). The saleswoman is becoming desperate and brings up her children (“what about my children?”) as a reason for attending the presentation. This is where I want to get: this opens the conversation for Stan and Janet to discuss children. What’s the purpose of the story, except to introduce the characters and get into the discussion?

This is where it hurts: the thinking. Just like going to the gym myself, after I finish a difficult set, I look back at the bench and my will weakens and breaks, and I leave. I come to a difficult part in my story, and the same thing happens. I get over the humps in the gym by working out with others. Perhaps I should do the same in writing. I have no answers, but I’ll try to continue, recognizing that there is no creation without thought—real thought, not just copied theories and regurgitated sayings.

They argue about monsters. Stan is weak with Janet, but not in his ordinary days. He approaches this logically and wants Janet to do the same. Janet’s beliefs are similar to Shannon’s when it comes to children: “Pitter-patter of little feet.” When it comes down to it, Janet walks out on the saleswoman; but in walking out, she’s really walking out on Stan’s ideas and thoughts on monsters. Stan lingers, thinking that maybe he should just buy the stupid painting, but decides against it and leaves.