Eyore Days

Eyore Days
Carol St. Ann

Approx 550 words

I am drawing a blank right now. I am not happy with anything I have written lately, and tonight I just don’t feel like adding to it. It’s not the story that I dislike, mind you; it’s the writing. I am just not making it jump off the page the way I see it in my head. My sentences are choppy and juvenile, and I’m not detailing the things I’m seeing.

I am using their names too much and descriptives, too little. Pronouns too much and staying so far away from adverbs and adjectives that it’s boring.

I hate flowery, over the top, adjective laden stories, but there is something to be said for he occasional use of a nice complimentary word here and there, or an insulting one, for that matter.

When did it all become so complicated? I used to sit down and let the words flow out of me like water through a spigot. Now I weigh every one with such pronounced dedication, I fear I’ve lost the joy. It has become work and not hobby.

And, let's just chat a little about run-on sentences, shall we: Instead of learning at my leisure and re-writing it with excitement and enthusiasm when I feel ready, I have begun to dread turning on the computer because the obligation, the responsibility to make it more and more perfect – and less and less me – has taken a place above the love of it.

There is a tension in it that was never there before.

Gone are the sleepless nights when writing was my hiding place, the happiest place in my life. When my typewriter – or computer, as the case may be – was my best friend. Sometimes my only friend.

It’s almost as though we have had a falling out, but we haven’t. Well of course, not. We couldn’t; could we.

I mean, that would be impossible. Wouldn’t it?

Am I blaming the keyboard for my sudden inability to adequately express myself? Or is it the screen? Maybe it is the position of the thing. Maybe it’s too high or too low. Maybe it’s this new operating system…

Or maybe it’s the weather… or the change of seasons… or Global Warming!

Or… maybe it’s me. Of course it’s me. The trouble is with me. The fault is mine. Only 377 words typed by now and I have been at this for at least 6 or 7 minutes already. Shit!

It’s not that there are not enough stories to tell or enough ways to tell them.

It’s that this one is my story. It’s that I am having trouble telling it, and this is ruining the telling of every story I have in my head. Nothing is coming out right.

Just last week I was delighted to learn from my female character, after months of hanging-out with her (in my head of course), that she writes cookbooks. She had never told me that before. It led to wonderful banter between her and my lead male character. All seemed well. But today, she is having trouble with a recipe and I cannot help her because I do not cook. In fact, every time I go into the kitchen, I hurt myself. So where does that leave me?

Maybe it’s hormonal.

Maybe it's just an Eyore Day. Haven't had one in a coupl'a'years, so I'm not sure.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll race to my keyboard at dawn and be glad to see it.

It could happen...

CSA