Or reasons a writer finds NOT to write.
A humorous dialogue between the writer and her wall on the reasons a (feel free to insert your name if this sounds familiar) writer finds not to write
Are you writing?
“My butt doesn’t fit in the chair. I need to go on a diet. I’m researching diets.”
You’re butt’s fine. Focus.
“I found a recipe for Banana Cream Pie.”
I thought you were going on a diet. Why are you surfing Epicurious.com?
“My butt doesn’t fit in the chair. I need to go on a diet.”
Is banana pie diet food?
“It’s got bananas and dairy products so it has to be good for you.”
You could stand to lose a couple of LBS.
“Good. You’re pissed enough to write.
“After I find a suitable diet, I’ll write.”
Your butt is fine. Meld with the chair, be one with the chair. Now sit.
“You’re one dimensional, no curves or slopes, no BMI, what do you know about body fat.
I’m the wall, I know a lot. I’ve been hanging here since the forties.
I can’t write.”
You can write. Fingers on the keyboard, clickity clack, clack, clack. Come on.
“I need a donut.”
“It’s 9:00 AM. I have to write for two hours before I can get off this chair. OK?”
OK. You write, I’ll watch the clock.
“Good Wall, what would I do without you.”
Hey you, where are you going? It’s only 9:08.
“Starbucks, I can’t think without coffee. I’ll be back in ten minutes.
Back so soon?
“Shut up, it’s only 11. I got sidetracked.”
Guess so since it’s 11PM.
What are you doing? I thought you were going to write.
“My eyebrows, there should be two. I have a uni-brow.”
“What do you know, you’re a wall.”
I didn’t ask you to talk me.
“A writer needs a friend who understands.”
Have you tried conversing with the West wall? She’s all love and kisses at sundown.
How many words? You’ve been typing for forty-seven minutes.
“It’s not the number that matters, it’s the quality of the writing. I’m a perfectionist.”
Read me what you wrote. You tell me I’m a good listener.
“It’s too soon. It’s a shitty first draft, barf on a page.”
Quoting Annie Lamont, again, that’s never a good sign.
“What does that mean?”
Nothing. If you don’t want to share, I can’t force you.
“Mr. King says not to let anyone see the writing until the writing is ready for eyes to read.”
He said that?
“Not exactly, but it’s gist of what he meant.”
If you don’t want to read your words, you don’t have to. I get it. No problemo. I’m here when you need me.
“Wall, don’t get all moody on me.”
“Wall, you’re such a girl.”
I thought you likeed this shade of pink. You did pick it out.
Are you going to read or not?
“I hate you.”
I thought I was your best friend? A writer needs a friend, you said. A writer only has her wall, you said. A writer is an island, you said.
“Geez. You’re so bloody demanding.”
I did take three coats to get this shade of pink.
“Here goes, ready?”
I got from here until the next big earthquake.
“Very funny, here I go… Milk, yogurt, whole wheat bread, Skippy peanut butter, chicken, cheese wiz, blue…”
That sounds like a grocery list.
“A writer needs to eat balanced meals you know.”
“Hey Wall, I’m back. Are you ready to rock ‘n roll. I’ve got the mojo tonight.”
Did you say PARTAY? Bring it on. I can almost see the word count mounting.
“I’m ready, so very ready. I’m so ready it hurts. My head weighs 800 pounds. I gotta write it all out. READY?”
I’ve got nowhere else to be but here with you.
I thought you said you got mojo. Bring on the words.
“I do. It’s on fire.”
Then why are you leaving the room?
“The mojo needs mood. Wine sets the mood.”
Is the mood set?
“It and I are stewing in the grape. I’m an artist. I need to ferment. I need space. I need quiet.”
Writing is a verb, you said.
I’m writing in my head. That’s cerebral action.
And NETFLIX, is that like Sudoko? It helps with the cerebral action...?
“I’m not inspired. I need inspiration to write. I need magic. I …
You need to sit your butt in the chair and write. That’s all you ever needed.
Me and the Wall have an understanding. I bitch and complain and she, being all pink and sassy, promises to stare back at me with the evil eye until my fingers are flying across the keyboard. I tried telling her about the hangnail in my left thumb tonight but she glared at me until I finished the post.
“I love you, Wall.”
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
What’s your biggest distraction (and cleaning out the lint between your toes doesn’t count)?