Writer's desperation

I start to panic mid morning -- I have nothing to write about. What am I going to do; oh my God the world is going to end; please let me think of something; there's got to be something worth while in my stupid brain; think god dammit; I only have a little time left.

Sometimes inspiration will save me -- the family will do something insanely hilarious or too awful not to write about. And other times I'll sit and stare at my computer like maybe I will burn the words into the screen with my eyes.

That's called writer's desperation. When you find yourself sort of hoping that someone will crash their car into yours on the freeway. Maybe the oven will catch fire -- just a little bit. Maybe you'll be abducted by aliens or a bank robber on the run. Or your house will be swallowed up by ghosts and you can find the developer who built your neighborhood on a cemetery and rip him a new one like Craig T. Nelson did in Poltergeist -- "You son-of-a-bitch, you left the bodies, and you only moved the headstones, didn't you?"

I've noticed my most grueling writing days often coincide with the addition of Tampax to the grocery list. Perhaps the draw of blood from my brain to my -- no need to be graphic -- is the culprit. Does that mean a hysterectomy will cure my writing woes? Perhaps, though unlikely.

The problem is stress. It's like a gargantuan clock to insomniacs -- it grows bigger and bigger and at some point it's so big there's no way you can fall asleep because you're being smashed to death by a demonic time piece.

The longer I spin my wheels grasping for topics to write about -- words to fill the page -- the more elusive they become. So I find myself stalking my cats and children; contemplating acts of lunacy like running naked through the neighborhood screaming "the red coats are coming, the red coats are coming;" because all good writers -- in my opinion -- require drama for their craft. 

For lack of real-world drama I write about my children and my husband and my mother's dog -- the cats have been boring for years. I'll find a suitable distraction to keep my mind off writing for a while, and something will come to me like magic.

Be careful what you wish for

Unfortunately the nature of life is such that as soon as I get that beautiful thing to write about disaster strikes, because I spent how ever many days complaining -- be it out loud or in my head -- that nothing exciting ever happens and "oh how the world hates me."

I think karma should publish and mass circulate the following disclosure: Indulging fantasies about minor disasters -- fender benders, escaped convicts, earthquakes and fires -- will result in a shit-storm on your head.