Clogs

Some days are just different.  Here I am, sitting in this one, waiting for some relevance to percolate from somewhere, anywhere, maybe from the deepening invariance I am experiencing now on a daily basis.  I think the greatest danger here is to my senses.  They grow weaker from the encroach of boredom as their disuse continues.  I hardly use my sense of touch anymore, for instance, only in the case of food, or in the few moments before sleep, when the satin brush of the bedding lulls me into comfort.  But on with it anyway.  What's all to say about it?  Just that it is, and won't be forever one hopes.

There are certainly brooding needs out there, I learned from a little trip to the mall.  I discovered there, that I too am not immune to the need to be desired.  Curiously, I had always thought this a woman's domain, but when I spotted a dark hair woman glancing down the isle of Macy's, clearly following me and my movements, I couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence.  Not that I went over there and spoke to her or anything, I have to maintain some level of decorum when I'm in a relationship--I guess, but man, it sure put me in a good mood.  Did I mention she was pretty?  Anyhoo.

I'm on the second scene now of a story I've been writing for about a week or more.  Maybe much more.  The mind blurs.  In this case, probably deliberately to conceal its lolligagging.  I can hardly blame it.   I've been writing about two characters driving in a car after a heist.  Its the first time they interact, fighting about how one of them is too reckless.  I trudged through it with all the grace and celerity of walk up a mud slide in the rain.

This is a warming sign in writing.  I consider it the immune system of the story, sending out antibodies that attach to your fingers and slow you to a crawl.  Its the story's way of telling you that something is horribly wrong and needs to be addressed, reworked, altered, removed, edited, whatever.  I find it tremendously accurate.  There have been countless times when the work has shut down to a trickle and with a few minutes of reflection, I can usually identify the problem, fashion a solution, and move on.  You just have to be careful the solution doesn't send your outline into a tailspin.  

The problem here?  I didn't know who I was writing.  Who these characters essentially are, where they've been, how they see things, how they talk, how they move, what they love and hate.  Most of the time this will self-illuminate during the process.  Not always.  This is one of those not-always cases.  They'll sneak up on you sometimes.  And these are the characters I thought I understood the most.  Turns out I hardly know their names.  I knew this, though, come into it.  I knew on a subconscious level that these characters were poorly defined, nothing but pawns to are assigned actions.  I just couldn't come to admit it to myself.  I'll know better next time at least.

Now to begin working on character bios.  After that, we'll see how much better the work flows.