I wanted to blog, then I didn’t. And this went round and round until, yeah, blog. I have reasons. Some real, others well…
Anyway.
Why the long road to blog? Because blogging takes work. It steals from other work. Writing work. That’s not to say that I’ve been writing like a motherfucker. In fact, just the opposite: Not much.
But hey, I still write every day. My writing notes explode with ideas and sometimes those ideas gain growth, expand, and evolve into stories. Short stories, to be exact. Problem is, my current WIP list is too long. Way. Too. Fucking. Long.
So yeah…
I need to finish some shit. A lot of shit. I get it.
First thing’s first: I shall finish a piece that’s long taunted me. It laughs at me while asleep in its tech file embedded deep within my Mac. It shuns my very existence. It smiles when it sees me hammer at keys for other WIP. It looks upon me with wide eyes and whispers, “Fuck you.” Then it smiles knowing full well that I’ll never attack it. But, no more. Consider full-on attack mode. I will Hulk the living shit out of it.
IT is a post-apocalyptic story I wrote way back in 2015. “Finished” it almost four years ago to this day. And it sucked. A huge goddamn bag of suck. Sucked so bad, I coulda called it Hoover. Or *Blow Job Betty. Use whichever you want. Don’t care. All I care about now is this one story.
Why?
Really?!
I will gently place your audacity aside in asking why.
Because that one story has haunted me. I think about it regularly. I see it in my dreams. All dreams. I see it when I’m awake. It taps at my shoulder. I create notes about it. And more notes. And then some more. I’m continually adding or revising it. All in my head. And some notes. You see, this one bullshit story has detracted me. It’s derailed my writing. Completely took me out of the writing world and put me smack in the WRITING FUNK. It’s removed me from other works. It’s placed my mind in disarray for writing.
This is not an excuse, it’s a stark reality.
Therefore, Post-Apocalyptic story, I shall finish you and you shall complete me. I will make you better. I shall, with your rolled up papers in hand, shout from my mountaintop. Sure, no one will be around to hear that scream, but doesn’t matter. I will finish the story in a way that feels complete. And thorough. And works. Until then, blogs at this spot will be more regular as I update my progress.
* Name is purely coincidental. If your name is indeed Blow Job Betty well, your parents really fucked up. If your name is just Betty and you’ve given blow jobs, that’s okay. Probably a good thing, in fact. Keep at it, Betty.
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