A Bit of Backstory: Was feeling sluggish yesterday morning, struggling to make a dent in my daily word count, when Serial Killer Who Lives Upstairs knocked on my door asking if I had a blunt object he could borrow. As I handed him a hammer and told him he could keep it after he’d used it, he thanked me kindly. Wanting to return the favor, he said, “You look like you could use a pick-me-up. Wait here – I have just the thing.” He ran upstairs to his chamber of torture, came back down and handed me a small plastic bag. “Enjoy!” he said.
And enjoy I did.
In my chemically-induced euphoria, I blasted through my writer’s block with the force of a thousand-keg dynamite explosion. Could barely keep up with the words now charging at me with the same relentless energy of a mob of crazed teenage girls rushing into a Justin Bieber concert.
1,000 words. 2,000 words. I could not be stopped.
3,000 words. 4,000 words. I was invincible!
5,000 words. 6,000 words. Suck it, Justin Bieber!
7,000 words. 8,000 words. 9,000 words. Hurray for crack cocaine!
At 10,000 words, my train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a giant tarantula walking across my computer screen. It raised one of its eight hairy legs and pointed to a typo on the page.
Tarantula waggled its hairy leg at me disapprovingly. “Tsk, tsk, Wannabe Writer. They’re watching you.”
In a panic about misplaced semi-colons, I frantically read over the 10,000 words I had written. Horror crept in as I scrolled through the 40 pages and realized that I hadn’t written 10,000 words of engaging prose and dialogue. I had only typed the word “words” 10,000 times.
At this point, am wondering how many realized that this was just a writing exercise and how many believe I regularly accept samples of street drugs from serial killers.
Am also wondering how these stream-of-consciousness exercises are supposed to help if my book is not about talking tarantulas or crack cocaine (neither of which I’ve experienced, for the record).