Writers Anonymous

A woman nervously enters the dank basement, walking quietly over to the chairs in the middle of the room. She clumsily bangs into a metal chair, wincing as it scrapes along the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard and quickly takes a seat. Her palms are sweaty, her mouth dry, and she’s not exactly sure why she’s here.

My name is Indigo. I’m a writer.

My writing has gotten out of hand to the point I can no longer watch television or a movie with someone else, due to occasional bouts of spouting out the plot and sequence of events and giving away the storyline.

It’s been so long since I read a book like a normal functioning human being, without poring over newfound words and dissecting what I’m reading to see if I can find the author’s voice. I’m often left dumbfounded asking why I didn’t think of that and hell bent on learning trade secrets.

I have more friends and enemies running around in my head than I do in real life.

I lose huge chunks of time; only to discover pages of typewritten words I don’t remember typing.

Friends and family should be warned they may or may not end up being a character in something I’ve written. Fair warning I could be writing about any of you right now. I’ve comprised a whole horror book on my neighbors alone (then again I’m sure that’s rationally normal).

I miss conversations and stare rudely at people I don’t know, filing away details for future characters in my head.

It’s been days since I stepped outside my house, or wore anything besides pajamas. Sometimes I forget to shower. I simply run out of time, sucked into the latest WIP (work in progress). Of which I seem to have several spewing forth at one time. I can’t seem to be satisfied with one storyline. I’m greedy that way.

Several times in any given day I come *pinches finger’s together* this close to tossing my laptop out the window.

I tend to scare people around me with sudden bursts of, “Aha”, and “I Got it”, at the top of my lungs or sputtering on and on about characters no-one knows. It’s all I talk about…I don’t understand why it should be so confusing.

My house has dust bunnies that scurry out from hiding with a hint of a breeze. They’re bigger than my foot. I’ve learned to expertly stack the dishes beside the sink into mini mountains. Loved ones often offer up food in the form of buckets of chicken or Chinese take-out. I forget to cook sometimes. Laundry? - That’s depends on smell-a-vision.

Right now I’m imagining Woody the woodchuck, digging holes in the snobby neighbors lawn (He lives beneath my shed – the woodchuck not the neighbor), and dandelions are yellow paint spatters from nature’s brush, and I’m a twenty something that wears Ed Hardy High-tops (The last is true, except the age thing – no that doesn’t have anything to do with being a writer. I’m just thrilled to have gotten them for a mere $20, compared to the usual $73). Sue me I don’t act my age.

I’m prone to bouts of illusions that make life seem…other than.

You know what? I don’t necessarily see a problem here. Sure I can’t comment on blogs as much and rarely visit reality. But I wouldn’t change a thing. I doubt any writer would, maybe that’s why I’m the lone one in – “Writers Anonymous”.



Original picture found here