Work makes me want to die. First, I can't be doing whatever it is I want to be doing. They pay me for that. But second, and probably more important, is that no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to think about anything while I work. It's not that my job is at all thought-consuming. Actually, there's no thought involved in it at all. Somehow, though, my brain refuses to hold any thought I try and feed it during my shift.
I mentioned in the last post that I finally remembered to bring a notepad with me tonight. And I'll be damned if it didn't make a difference. Who would have thought that I'd get inspired just knowing the fact that I had a yellow tab by my side? It was almost like, "Okay, you have the means to write, so do it". No excuses.
And write did I ever! It started out simply enough with the heading "What I Know (Very Little)". I began doing a basic character sketch of my main female. No biggie, since I don't really know her well enough. Then a wrote a line or two about my main male. He worries me, as I don't want him to be a wimp. Then, before I knew what was happening, my hand was flying across the paper writing line after line about the two mains and how they progress through the novel, straight through to the end. It was amazing. I got more work done in my thirty minute lunch break then I have in ten years.
So now I know the secret: keep some goddamn paper with me at all times. I feel like I knew this before, but for some reason it didn't go in to practice until tonight.
Sometimes I amaze myself...
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