The Never-Ending Story

I vaguely remember a movie from my younger days. It was called The Never-Ending Story. One of the characters was something like a dragon. It talked, or maybe it was a telepath... I do remember it wore an Elvis pompadour. The hero was a little boy who loved to read. He was a cute kid. The kind of cute that appeals to adults and gets kids beat up. Somehow, our young hero entered a book and battled to save the world.

It was a kids' movie so, of course, the cute kid prevailed against impossible odds. And just when you thought the movie was over some wise old guy - don't ask me where he came from, I don't remember - explains that the hero's story is still being written. It is never-ending.

I have been writing the never-ending story. True, it contains no dragons with retro hair-dos. Also, there are no wise old guys in it. Instead, it is an article that won't end. Every time I think I have finished, the editor asks another excellent question.

It has kept me from my novel, my blog and an ever-growing pile of laundry.

I just sent off another e-mail with more information. I am not so foolish as to believe the story is finished.

If it ever does end, look for it in November!

A Writer's Life

My vision of a writer's life includes sending my children off to school, walking the crazy Weim and settling down in front of a computer for four or five hours. The phone doesn't ring, the laundry does itself and a quick trip to the grocery yields ingredients for a delicious, nutricious dinner everyone will like.

The reality - I work at a job I love and come home to a house destroyed by two ten-year olds' attempts at making and icing cookies. I do loads of laundry, run the dishwasher, sweep up random pieces of duct tape (the kiddos are also fashioning bracelets), wipe down counters, chisel dried icing of the breakfast room table and try to figure out what's for dinner. And still, it's there. The itch...the need to write about air so warm and heavy it feels like flannel.

So - tonight the writing life will include a dinner sure to engender complaints - chicken again? A load or two of laundry, dishes and at least an hour or two of key tapping.

The allure of bathroom grout

I admit it. I've been hoping that one of my daughters would do something amusing. After all, it's easier to recount their adventures than create something about which to write.

They've been remarkably unhelpful.

Sitting down to write might just be the hardest part of writing. I swear the screen sneers at me. "Hah," it says, "I know you don't mean it. You're not going to sit here and write a chapter. You've got nothing to say." And really, there are so many other things that need doing - laundry and cooking and errands and cleaning the grout in the bathroom with an old toothbrush.

The funny part - once I sit down to do it, put fingers on keys and stare down the snarky screen, it's not so bad. Ideas translate to words, pages flow into chapters, or, in today's case, an article for a local magazine. Heck, my ability to tap on keys extended to a blog post.