Trying to Write A Novel

They say you should write about what you know so maybe I should write a novel about trying to write a novel.

I can see it already.

Sometimes, writing will attack my main character. Like the sudden onset of diarrhea, an idea will come to her--but she'll be stuck in the car, driving, with nothing to write with or on!

Butt clenched, she'll strain to hold onto the idea, repeat it over and over, until somehow, somewhere, she finally gets relief. A pen! A stubby pencil! A tube of lip gloss! Out it comes, onto hand, napkin, receipt, envelope, thank god.

Yeah, baby!

Other times, its a love affair. She's up in the night! They must meet! She is drawn to the computer. The words flow like silk. The click of the keyboard is a murmur of adoration. Blue light brightens her amorousness. Oh how I love you. Kiss kiss kiss.

Their attraction becomes a distraction. It's a wonder she can walk straight, follow a recipe, have a conversation, for her mind is elsewhere, or rather, half here and there, in some nebulous place where people that don't exist, exist and what they say, do, wear, eat, think is the ultimate fascination.

Then the drought rolls in: dry, blistering cracks. What's been written so far becomes a repeating pattern of the psyche that digs in the dirt, over and over and over again--it's so dry she can't breathe, everything is blocked, all still, suffocating--

Until suddenly an idea comes to her, usually while she's driving... a sweet little rain drop that precedes the downpour that stimulates the inevitable trysts and mutual confessions of unyielding devotion all over again.

Exhilarating! Exhausting!

Maybe I'll have her go mad at the end. Or is it...'victory'? (Top of the bestsellers list and a movie deal!)

Eventually, is there closure? Does she ride off into the sunset, clutching her paperback and/or e-reader download?

Or does the big wheel keep on turning?

Even when the book 'ends', I suspect it doesn't really end.