So, as soon as I decide I'm not going to write anymore short stories for a while, what do you think happens? That's right, boys and girls, my lovely and homicidal muse decides to shit upon my head with countless ideas for short stories and begins to electrocute my brain until I start writing them down. On my pc, my laptop, in longhand in note books and even scribbling notes on the steamy bathroom mirror, which I have to get to by jumping out of the shower and racing over to it before the thought is gone, whisked away like a dandelion seed in a hurricane. WTF?
My brain is not my own. My thoughts are not my own. My stories are not my own. They come from somewhere else. I'm now positive of this. Perhaps it's a future me, zapping ideas into my head now to ensure that I have something to show for myself when that day comes that I too am whisked away like the aforementioned dandelion seed. Otherwise, the eternally-wise future me knows that instead of doing what I'm supposed to be doing--stringing words and sentences together to form some semblence of what I laughingly call A STORY--I'll instead busy myself with things like counting how many pairs of Chucks I have (a lot!) and trying to learn the lyrics to Bree Sharp's classic tune "David Duchovny". (But, really, why WON'T he love me?)
Anyway, I think I need more coffee and perhaps another set of hands. Maybe then I could write two stories at once, doubling my pleasure and doubling my fun, but most importantly, shutting up that damn "haha, look at me, I'm so amusing" smug little muse.
I may have to start swatting at her with a rolled up magazine again. Which, of course, means hitting myself in the head and causing people to look at me weird. But, they don't know. They aren't writers. But, you guys understand, right?