My Rockstar went to bed at 7:30 last night.
Now, spare me the “Well, he IS 41” and “he DOES work hard.” These things are both true, but that does not make going to bed earlier than a 4 month old acceptable. Especially when I was actually home, and awake, and my normal horny self. There are just much too much other fun things to do besides for sleep when I’m around, like, doggy-style, spanking, biting, the wheelbarrow… you get the idea.
Anyhoo, while I am never at a loss for ideas of things to do, the thought of watching an Angelina movie or a rerun of Elliot Stabler scowling sexily at a perp did not really appeal to me. Even the newest book I started reading did not spark my interest. And so, I thought to myself, “Hmm, I should work on writing my book.”
It may seem strange that someone who likes to write as much as I would wait until the complete and utter powers of boredom took over before I began typing my thoughts out on the keyboard. Let me explain.
The Book (the main one I’m working on, not all the other ideas I’ve toyed with and barely begun) has been a source of constant nagging in the back of my head since I began it nearly twelve years ago. It has changed and morphed and mutated so because of my hopes of trying to create the next Great American Novel. The characters (and their names) have been changed, and the end of the story has become something I never would have expected. You are wondering where this masterpiece is so you can read it, you say? Well. you’re just gonna have to wait until it gets out of my head. Oh, yes, the entire thing is written- in my head. (Which may very well explain the voices I’ve been hearing for the last 7 years or so.) In fact, the sequel is well on it’s way to crowding the first of the series out, which may be the reason it was so easy for me to write an entire chapter last night.
Because I have written and re-written and yet again re-written the beginning chapters of my book, it has become the bane of my existence. I also found out very quickly that despite having a complete storyline, the writing of such details to get said storyline written can be mundane and worse than scrubbing skid marks out of a toilet bowl. I attempt all of my writings to be as easy to read as a Twilight novel, (without the shittiness) while maintaining only slightly less detail than a Thomas Hardy novel. (Really, is it necessary to write forty pages describing a moor? It’s a swampy plain.) Finally, I wish all my characters to be complex (maybe not as much as I am) and all my readers to finish reading what I’ve written while saying as passionately as Lestat did in Queen of the Damned when he thirsted for blood- “MORE!”
In the original manuscript written in my head, my Book was not nearly as humorous as it seems to be turning out. (Though I may be wrong, because I am greatly amused by “Your mom” jokes.) That having been said, if my Rockstar continues to go to bed at un-Godly early hours, you all shall have a novel worth reading that I shall not be embarrassed about having written in no time at all.