Photo: Lucasfilm, Return of the Jedi, 1983.

6/9/19 Word Count: 1678
6/10/19: 657

Once, there was a writer. Not just any writer — every writer. And to that writer was given the care and keeping of marvelous things.

Characters waiting to draw breath.

Worlds unformed and swirling on the edge of creation.

Stories hungering to be told.

To serve those things, the writer was given words to bring all into being. Good words and bad words and words of questionable moral fiber. And lo, even the Oxford comma, preening with righteous martyrdom.

But the power of creation is no small thing. The ability to create something from nothing lies only in the province of gods, toddlers, and Fox News (which, on the spectrum of Gods-And-Toddlers is somewhere back in utero). It is rumored this power also belongs to women for a few days each month when, with alarming frequency, Nothings become Serious Somethings Requiring Lengthy Discussion.

Anyway, because Spider-Man once said that with great power comes great responsibility, Something decided that the writer’s mettle should be tested, thus proving the writer worthy of wielding such legendary might.

Side note: it would have been nice if Someone had shown Something that the writer was not in the market for any further character development that day, having already been set upon by the Four Whoresons of the Manuscripts: Twitterhole, Procrastination, Oooh Shiny!, and Day Job.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Undeterred by compassion or any sense of minding its own beeswax, Something popped open a bag of Dark Side Skittles and munched its way through summoning that most vile of creative specters: Self-Doubt.

And Self-Doubt arrived in the writer’s mind in an Uber. It could have come riding a Scarlet Beast — that would have been fabulous — but when you don’t make your scheduled payments on your apocalyptic rides, they get repo’d.

Once Self-Doubt arrived, it activated its Jabba The Hutt protocol and began jerking the writer around by the neck and lounging around like a big, ugly putrescent slug. The space bikini was optional — after all, it’s name was Self-Doubt, not Self-Loathing, for which the writer was grateful.

This is how my writing week has gone so far, folks. I’m not quite half-naked on a hovercraft, floating over a Sarlacc pit, chained to my own loathsome insecurities, staring with longing at my carbonite-frozen Muse. But I’m close.

6/11/19 Muse Magic:

I wrote something funny on my blog and did not pull out all of my hair or eat a sackful of Krystals. I would, however, like for my Muse to look like Han Solo. I don’t know why I didn’t make that request earlier.


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