It’s 11 p.m. and I have eyes watching my every movement. The black eyes stare at me without ever blinking. As if I am bound to this computer and it to me. As if my will is not my own. I must type or else.
This freaking monkey is a vicious taskmaster.
It’s just a Goodwill monkey that I bought for someone who means a lot to me. I have decided to not give it away. I dubbed it George. He sits atop of my watch box. George keeps me on task with his silent glare.
Between my coffee and Jell-O cup, George watches as I apply myself to the murder mystery that I am attempting to write.
Lately, I have slacked off on it. Life is a tumultuous wave of depression, anxiety, stress, and on rare occasion, moments of sheer joy.
I have experienced all of it the past few weeks. Good news trickles in, bad news comes like a hurricane in Haiti.
So, George and I came up with a plan. From 6p.m. to midnight (or thereabouts) I write about the murder mystery, and when I am tired of that, I write, well…this stuff.
Tonight, being the first night, I have written eight pages of murder mystery. I am proud of myself. I sat out to write, and I have written.
The sound advice given to every writer is simple: Get it on paper.
I’m trying. This story has taken on a life of its own.
I am no longer in control. It goes where it wants, and I am just tagging along for the ride.
I’m tired, and I have a full cup of coffee to kill before I even think of bed.