Excreting a Story

Sometimes writing a story is like taking a dump.  You work hard to get it started. You push and you push and it won’t come. And then, all of a sudden, muscles unclench and it all starts to flow. You hope the end-result doesn’t smell too bad and sometimes you even stop to admire what you’ve created before flushing it down the toilet and going back to the drawing board.

Such was the case for me this morning. I had been struggling with a new opening for “The One About Robin” all week and I woke up with a sore throat and a stuffy head and I was convinced that nothing was going to come. I thought about going back to bed. I didn’t, though. I kept at it. I pushed and I fought against those two unwieldy pages I had and I came out with seven and a half pages in total. When it comes it comes in big globs.

Wait a minute. Was this a shitting metaphor or a masturbating metaphor? I lost track.

Well, needless to say, my day started off better and there were no major confrontations or explosions at work and that made my day end much better. I skipped the gym because I wasn’t feeling well and I came home to a great e-mail from my faculty mentor on my last submission for the semester. It further charged me to get these two stories done for the residency.

Tomorrow’s Thursday and that is brilliant. I couldn’t be happier about it. The next three weeks I work three days, four days, and the four days, and then I’m at the residency for a week. I can’t wait.