Been pretty quiet in my head of late.
Most people would be grateful. Not me. Used to be a time when the voices of my characters would clamor to be heard. They used to have a lot to tell me, most often things like where they were headed and how they would like to get there. Now, not so much. Matter of fact, not at all.
Nick and Flint MacAllister are arguing in a post-apocalyptic world, Randy's in a police station wondering what's become of his mother, young Sam's just gone out to steal breakfast in an oversized rainjacket, and Dottie's got a secret she hopes her husband doesn't discover. And Monk. Dear Monk. Monk sits on the top shelf pinging me with peanuts, his mad attempt to either juice up my imagination or at least keep me nourished until I can find it again. The rest eye me periodically wondering what's next on their agenda.
I've no idea. Literally. None. Does Nick save Flint's life and prove himself the next leader of the ragtag band of refugees? Is Randy's mom off getting married to the wealthy Mister Mister? Will Sam make it home before being beaten by the lowlife that lurk in the shadows, will Dottie's husband forgive her? And will Monk survive long enough to hear Kira say she loves him?
I dunno.
The ceaseless chatter of the internet is blocking my thoughts. I hope Monk has lots of peanuts.
Posts
Moving Back the Island
10 years ago
2 comments:
I'm glad that after posting this things began to unclench for you creativity-wise. I totally relate to everything you wrote here. Good thing Monk had enough peanuts.
Monk has plenty of peanuts, no worries, and I couldn't answer this until I actually subbed my story. It has finally gone out and tomorrow I'll polish something else. Monk is hopeful I will choose him.
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