This is What Happens When I Sit Down to Write

According to my Professor, I should be spending two hours a day writing in order to complete the first draft of short story that is due next week. “Write. Write. Write. And Write some more,” She tells us. I don’t think this is what she intended. But who can really know the minds of Professors anyway? Seems reasonable enough at first except for a few key points. First, we have to read like sixteen short stories and write critical reviews on a half dozen fellow student’s short story proposals. There are three proposals per student and each had to pose two to three questions they wanted input on in addition to the grading rubric. I hate that word, by the way. Next, write a critical analysis of setting in one of the sixteen short stories. No problem.

Herein lies the rub. It’s a creative writing course with a focus on fiction. While I love fiction, I decidedly suck at it. If you have read any of my blogs, you might be thinking the same thing. Rest assured that none of what you have read is fiction. I guess maybe non-fiction isn’t my forte either. So, I come up with these fictional short story ideas and we collectively narrow things down to the one I’ll focus on. Research is now required in order to write about that of which I know nothing. Have you ever tried to research something you made up? Resources are a bit elusive, truth be told. So, forty-seven and a half hours of research later, I’ve managed to come up with some pretty good stuff but my attention span is roughly equivalent to that of a goldfish and I ended up watching funny dog videos on YouTube, binge watching The Santa Clarita Diet’s entire first season, piddling around on Face Book, taking a nap, and writing this blog entry.

It is settled then, I’ll regale my Professor with a tale of a particularly spiritual Zen master frog with a sordid past… Maybe not. I actually just made that last bit up.

*Note to self: Explore the Tantric Toad idea. You could make him the savior of his people as they vie against the French and the Cajuns. Maybe some rednecks too. Yeah. They can come along. I guess it was too much for him to see the love of his life laying in a home for the legless. He really liked those legs. So did Pierre.

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