There’s a rattling in my head. It’s this damn script. There are around ten pieces of it trying to group together and form some connection. It’s all up there, and I know I should just release them. They’ve been begging to be released for a couple months now, since I stopped my nightly writing routine back in June, but for some reason I’m torturing them, and they’re torturing me. Every few nights I pledge I’ll let them out, but something happens and another night goes by without my spending my butt time in the writing chair.
It’s too hot in the basement, and I hate the loud air conditioner I have down there. I’d rather watch the football game or a movie or Hell’s Kitchen. I’d rather clean the garage. I’d rather read a magazine.
And these bits of my story keep rattling around up there. They’re heavy. I think I’m afraid that once they get out, they’re going to scurry away and I won’t be able to rein them in anymore. At least if they’re up there, I know where they are even if I can’t see entirely what they consist of.
I’m going to have to deal with this at some point soon, I know…