So you’ve got some free time, and you sit down to finally write, and you have a half decent idea, and some characters, and you sort of know where to start.

Until you sit down to actually start.

I didn’t know how to start, what that first sentence should be. I was staring at an blank document for twenty minutes just trying to put it together, and I’m trying to write a prologue of sorts but I’m terrible at prologues. I always think, I’ll just get it out and go back to it later to improve it.

I wish I could just hook my brain up to the computer and have the stuff in my head just come out directly into a document. I remember wishing for the same thing when I was seventeen, and I don’t see it happening any time soon. Or in my lifetime. Which means writing novels the hard way. Man if I could just hook my brain up to this little netbook I’m using, I would have a finished novel. Or four.

Imagine if I could leave my brain hooked up at night to record my dreams in words. Though last nights nightmare I’m dying to forget. It wasn’t so much what happened, but the feeling of pointlessness it left me with, and the panic I woke up with.


Anyway, I’m still battling through my prologue, but at least I’ve started and I have a couple of hundred words out of the messy green goo that I have swishing around in my skull (instead of a regular brain).

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