Sid Happens ~ And That's Just The Tip O' The Iceberg ...

Fast of Tammuz (Jewish)
National Ice Cream Day
Moon Day (Man's First Lunar Landing)
Special Olympics Day
Independence Day (Colombia)
Marine Day (Japan)

 

The trouble with Learning To Share is the kids in the class I have taken to calling Sids. You know who I mean—those kids who don’t take care of their toys or anyone else’s, who cut Barbie’s hair or lose Optimus Prime’s hands or just bash everything around until it’s unrecognizable. You’ve seen their toys strewn across the floor in a state of disarray, Sharpie, undress, brokenness, or decapitation, and you’re pretty sure your own stuff won’t survive unscathed. You wouldn’t trust them with a frisbee or a Koosh ball, let alone your beloved Barbie doll. You couldn’t hide your cool stuff from these kids because they already knew you had it—maybe they saw you bring it for Show And Tell or were at your birthday party when you unwrapped it—and would keep harassing you to get it out and how could you say “No way you’ll break it” to your friend so you sort of resisted and made up half-assed lies about how it was in the wash or broken already and in for repairs.

 

I had hoped that now that I’m no longer eight I wouldn’t happen to put up with that anymore. Hah! Last night I got slapped with Unexpected Sids. And then … well then it got worse.

 

( This Story Has A Shocking Twist Ending )

Writing Is Hard

God dammit, I have done it again.

 

For the past few months I have been struggling with one Doctors! episode. It’s taken me way too long because, to tell the truth, it is not going well.

 

Something was not coming together.  I kept typing, but all the way through each scene (except for a key few really cool ones), one very important point kept making itself clear:

 

This story is really boring.

 

It’s got some good bits, but a lot of it is just the characters sitting around going, “Now what?” And I just didn’t have any idea how to fix that.

 

But! I plodded on, slowly, writing each sentence and then giving up and then writing it again, boring myself with my writing, procrastinating like nobody's business.  I think I was going on with the vague hope that once it was completed, it would somehow become awesome. There are always rewrites, after all. I can spice it up then.

 

Now, tonight, I just typed the last sentence.

 

And suddenly, like a thunderclap, I had a brilliant idea—a new direction to take the story that would actually make it interesting.*

 

Dammit, why didn’t I have this epiphany months ago?  Now I’ve got to go back and do some massive rewrites, figure out how to put this new arc in, and work in the already-good bits around it. I just finished this story. What do you mean I have to go back and do it again?

I guess I can always hope that the added spice will make it more fun to write.

 

And on the plus side, I just recounted the story—both versions—to myself and realized that it seems to be my Let’s Casually Flip Off Conservatism story.  If the finished product doesn’t bring down the wrath of James Dobson upon me, nothing will. That's something, at least.

 

 

*Or, possibly, just prove that I have watched way too much Law’n’Order.