Blockage

I need to write. If I don't, I get all knotted up inside. Writer's block is like having constipation. Both involve being full of crap that you just need to get out. And you just sit there for hour upon hour waiting with no result. 

There I go mortifying my husband again by mentioning disgusting things. Pool pissing, constipation. He's one lucky fella to call me his wife, isn't he? I mean, he's married to the queen of blogging etiquette. A modern day Emily Post, if you will. 

Anyway, as you may know, I've been working on the same book since George W. was just a coke head watching Ranger's games. But, despite my trying to come up with a spectacular ending for this spectacular story, the ending won't come.

Oh, an ending has come, just not the ending. It's been written numerous times, in the wee hours as I chug caffeine, smoke cigarettes and edit, edit and edit some more. But the ending comes out all wrong, like the last scene of The Sopranos. My mind just fades to black, some Journey plays, and I'm left wondering what the hell just happened. So I backspace 30 pages and go to bed.

I'm meant to write. My fortune cookie told me this is what I'm supposed to do. I was called to put stories on paper. And Renee Zellweger was born to play the leading role when this particular book is adapted for the screen. Only she doesn't know that. And I'm sure a book with no ending will bear no weight on editors or film makers or Renee.

Can I include alternate endings and let the readers decide what they like best? Is that possible? I'd much rather give my book its fate and be confident in its ending, but I just don't know how.

Should I kill Renee Zellweger? Try her for treason? Hang her? Castrate her? Let her go, riding into the sunset on a wild stallion, while Mazzy Star "Fade Into You" plays?

No.

But the possibilities are endless, you see?

I've got to finish this book because other stories are popping in my head. I've already got two more drafted and waiting to come to life, but I have to figure out what the hell to do with Renee first. Or maybe I should use Reese Witherspoon. Can Reese Witherspoon be funny and batshit crazy at the same time? My Lord, I cant castrate Reese Witherspoon!

Writer's block, you must end. I've got other things to do, and I need to go ahead and get this first million out of the way. I can no longer stare at blank computer screens, the cursor flashing and mocking me.

My brain is constipated and its starting to weigh me down. And make me mean.

Isn't that what constipation does? Weigh you down and make you mean? Where is my language laxative, so to speak? I need words to flow forth and flood the paper.

Gross.

The words "flow forth", "flood" and "paper" should never be used in the same paragraph as "laxative". I'm sorry to everyone, including my husband and the Emily Post Foundation, for that graphic mental photo.

Anyway, Renee needs me to finish this book, too. Bridget Jones is going to star in a third movie about having Mark Darcy's baby. This will most certainly kill her career.

I have to finish this book. For myself. For my peace of mind. For my destiny. For Renee Zelweger.

You're welcome, my lady. You're welcome.