I’ll tell you what I WANT to write.

I want to write stories like puzzles, not paintings.

You see parts of it, and you have to figure out some of the connections to get the bigger picture.

I want to write something, anything. And I just don’t seem to do that. I think about writing. I think about what and how I’m going to write this next great story, I scribble ideas and events and character flaws, and the story is coming together, but I just won’t sit down and write it.

Not can’t. Won’t.

I’ll go even further farther. What I’m doing is postponing the writing part. Everybody tells me (other writers and blogs about writing and books on writing) that I should read more, and write more. I’m all about the reading. The writing is what’s got me stopped. I’ve restarted my novel about a fifty-year-old teenage ghost ten times at least. There are too many ways to skin that cat right now.

So I won’t write it yet. But I need to start writing something. Anything. So here’s this blog and I’ll write it about the walls I keep bumping into. Into which I keep bumping. Like where do I start on the tale? Now? Or in the beginning? Or in the middle? Telling a tale in the chronological sequence of events is good, but this one’s in first person, and I’ll want this idiot to reflect on his crap, his baggage and how it is he’s here.

Maybe I’ll go read Fight Club.

But when I’m ready to sit the hell down and write this tale, I can’t wait for that minute. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be there, and all I’ll have to do is listen. Just like the best songs I’ve ever written.

Okay. So here’s your vacant mindless blog post of the day, one that says nothing in so many more words than are necessary, but by God I’m putting words down and that’s more than I did yesterday.