You've found your market, you know what they want and you know, what's more, that you can deliver it.

So you sit, trying to write, the plot there shining in your head. How it starts, where it goes and exactly what the ending is, it's all there.

This is the short story they're looking for.

So you sit, trying to write and the set up is done, and you have your protagonist nicely defined. He's about to meet the heroine and...

The phone rings.

"Hello, me speaking," you say.
"Is she home?"
"Yes I'll just get her," and you yell and you yell until you get a response, over the loud music in the other room.
"It's so-and-so on the phone for you."

And you sit, trying to write, tapping on the keys, and it's going really well, and now he's met the woman and they're about to speak, and...

The phone rings again.

"Get that," you bellow, "It'll be for you." Then you listen to the ringing, and hear that the house is strangely silent as the phone rings on. So you answer the phone and take the message.

And you sit, trying to write, squeezing out a few more lines before another call comes. Only this time it's him, and he wants you to call the bank and transfer some money, and get his kit washed before tomorrow, because he forgot and he's racing and...

You mean to do it, you really do, but the story has got you in its grip.

So you sit, trying to write, and the characters are clinching and they're at the bedroom door and...

Three giggling teenagers burst through the door, asking for ice-cream and juice and so loud. So, you feed them and get yourself a coffee, and compose yourself and settle down.

And you sit trying to write, trying to get the mood back, as she leans into his kiss and....


You go through next door and look at the three great lumps on the remnants of a foldaway bed and you ... don't scream at them, much as you want to, but you sort it out and fix the bed, and you see him driving up to the door, and remember the bank and the washing that you haven't done, feeling guilty, but longing to get back to the story.

And you sit trying to write, and the words aren't coming easily any more, but you know that they're there so you focus and you focus and ...

He wants to know where his tyre levers are, and have you seen his cap, and he's standing behind you with a pump squeaky-clattering as he blows up the inner tube, and he's talking to you and....

And you stop trying to write, and you sigh, and node this instead.

Well, it's been roughly two (three, you moron) months, since I last attempted writing. Isn't it pathetic people?

Two (three, don't act like you can't hear me)months of waiting for some spark of brilliance that will change noding forever. I've waited and waited, and waited, and...
That's a nice philosophy.

I've failed. Failed totally, completely, miserably. Hell, I've failed at writing a single node. Yes, yes you have.

Instead, I've gotten caught up in the idea of writing, whatever that may be, spending my time thinking about something along the lines of "gee wouldn't it be great if..." I've that about half stories, that is to say, stories with no beggining, no middle, hopefully an end. I sit down in my room, every night, saying that I'll write something. Anything for this most sacred and most holy of sites.
User Info: HarmonyAndMe, User Since: Tue Nov 11 2008 at 07:36:02 (4.4 months ago ),
Number of Writeups:4,
level / experience:0 (Initiate) / 88.

My one contribution to this entire website in thses two (three you-shut up) months has been one insignificant little nodeshell made in the hopes that my love will see it. I've hoped in vain.
Insignificant. Sums you up pretty well, doesn't it.
Ah! I know what we'll call you: Insignificanta.

Y'know, this writeup started us something for the SciFiQuest9999, then a philosophical debate, a love story, the Canadian Invasion of the US, and a deeply personal story, which had degraded into this. Whatever this is.

I look to my right, I see three writeups by shaogo, four by Glowing Fish.
Hmmm... in two days, this luminescent
aquatic life form has written as many
nodes as you have in four-point-four months.

Writing should be easier than this.
To smart people, like those in the "New Writeups" section, it is easy.

Ideas should come easier than this.

Why don't they? To avoid repeating myself, I'll go with something new; You're pathetic., I'm not. Yes you are. You know it.

I'm not, I'm not. You are, you are.

No...I'm For the last(maybe even second last) time; you are.

I am- Finally, thank you.

But- There is no but. You are pathetic, you are sad, you've spent the last year and a half dreaming
about a pretty girlwho never liked you, and whom you never even had the guts to ask out, you're a waste
of perfectly good genetic material. Can you "B...b...but" any of that?

"Us". What?

You mean us. Remember "you've spent the last year and a
half dreaming about a girl who never liked you "
Well, it should read " we've spent the last year and a half
dreaming about a girl who never liked us" You're a
part of me. Um...that...that still doesn't mean that you
can write.

It means that you can't write either. Yes, b...b...but I don't suck.

Then I don't suck, either. It's a possibility.

I suppose it is. Well, (please stop saying "well"-)now that we've decided that it's a possibility
that you/us are not the most usesless creature/s on the planet. What do we do now?

We write. Write what?

How about this? I/we (this "/" thing is tough) could live with it. Nobody will read it though.

Probably. And think about the dissonance between the first and second half, I don't think they're actually

I know.

I though I'd ask:Why are we writing again?

Hmmm... i'd like to see what it feels like.

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