As I write this, here at the foot of the lovely Rockies, there is a layer of ice on everything outside. I haven’t been able to spend any significant time outside because driving is iffy on a sheet of ice, and walking risks losing vital parts of your anatomy, like your nose.
It would seem this is the ideal situation for a writer. After all, there’s nothing else to do...
Weirdly, it’s not translating that way. I pace. I stare at the computer. I find truly bizarre home improvement projects to do.
It is my belief that humans aren’t made to be confined. I’m about ready to go out and hunt a mammoth.
And that’s part of the issue. I have a perfectly good beginning for a novel and I want to write it. It’s due at the publisher’s anyway. So... why aren’t I writing?
Because humans are contrary. Or... wait, I don’t know about humans, but I am. My desire for walking outside translates itself to being assaulted by countless stories, in – I think – an attempt to escape.
All of a sudden, in my head, I have a young woman walking downtown Denver while the city is closed by a major blizzard. She’s kidnaped by an elf troop on magical horses mincing and glittering its way through ice-bound sixteenth street mall and forced to be midwife to their queen. There is a feel of glitter and brocade and shabbiness and a sleigh that shines gold and silver. The rest is still in head because I’m NOT writing it till novel is done.
Then there is the little girl who knocks at the door and carries an injured baby dragon. It’s too cold to throw them back out into the snow. What do you do?
And what do you do when your baby dragon eats glitter and you have to take him to the vet? Does the vet know dragons exist?
So – what do you suggest I do, other than gluing my butt to the chair – which I’ve been doing, but doesn’t keep my mind from wondering? What do you do when physically confined? Does it bother you? (I confess to a perverse impulse to throw it all to the winds and go watch Galaxy Quest for the hundredth time.) Save me from myself. Tell me how to vacate my mind of this silly stuff, so I can work.