I was sailing down the interstate last week and a story came to me. I tried to fight it. After all, I’ve got this gem of a frigging novel sitting at home, still unfinished, after half a decade. I don’t need to start a new book. I need to finish an old one.
I pushed it away, but like a hungry mouse at the Kraft factory, it kept coming back .
Before I knew it, an hour later, I was home and I had written the first chapter in my head. I didn’t even remember the drive home, which is pretty effing scary. So, I ran inside, and I started scribbling down the outline for this book. The characters, the plot, the opening paragraph for the sequel.
Hubs and I went on a date last night. After consuming the ass end of a cow, and more potatoes than Scarlett O’Hara, I told him I was ready to go home. I didn’t want to shop, I didn’t want to watch goobers drink coffee at Starbucks. I wanted to go home and write.
And that’s exactly what I did. I wrote for hours. The words just came to me, flowing onto the paper, like a paper trained puppy with diarrhea.
When I say hours, I don’t mean 120 minutes. I mean an entire work shift, for people who, well, work. Hours. Freaking hours.
After all my years of late night writing, I know when my stopping point arrives. I begin to feel deliriously drunk. Without consuming a single drop of alcohol, I really feel drunk. My words turn into rambles, my head spins, I have imaginary conversations with Cybil Shepherd. I know I should go to bed.
Oh, and I spill things. And I begin talking to myself. Out loud.
However, I wasn’t ready for bed. I was on a drunken high. And what does any normal person do at 3 am when they are wasted? They get on Facebook. Naturally.
Before I knew it, I was typing incoherent shit on people’s walls, posting pictures from the nineties. I was commenting on people’s photos. I wasn’t typing the comments, but rather, I was saying them. Out loud.
“That dress makes you look like a douche balloon.”
“That’s your 87th photo of your dinner this week.”
“That’s hilarious,” I would say, straight faced, producing no laugh.
I told myself, “Susannah, you need to go to bed.”
So, I went to bed.
No, actually I first shuffled around the house, in the dark, looking for my cell phone for 3 minutes. You might think 3 minutes is an incredibly short amount of time. It isn’t when you are shuffling around in the dark looking for something that has been in your hand the entire time.
So, I checked on my kids and crawled into bed. Husband was comatose. I was so exhausted, but I just couldn’t turn off my mind. What would happen next in my story? Would she kill him? Would she hide in an alley? Would the Libyans find her bottle of 1987 Charlie perfume?
So, I got up. I said to myself, out loud, “Susannah, go back to bed.”
But, I seldom take my own advice.
I’m just thrilled to be writing again.
Watch this video for a clearer image. This WAS me.