The battle, my friends, is always in the things that I have written and the ones that I am ready to write. You will know, of course, that I am a writer and because of that I am very pretty and very willing to hear the opinion of others. I am also ready to understand my role in the world, that is, a person who has bared his soul to the world so that people crave my musings and drink my poison.
But I lost it, the plot I mean, and it is nowhere to be found, and I cannot continue my story, and because of that, the whole world crumbles around me and I cry in a bed with a hundred different pillows.
“Are you here? Are you here?” I say as I look under the carpet, under my toilet, and under the litter box, but it is pointless. I have lost the ability to continue a story that I have left halfway through, which has sold in the millions and which everyone likes in just the correct amount: enough to complain about it forever.
Nobody would mind if I stop writing it, right? I am a writer so I am an optimist and I also know that I am correct, so I go on my way without worrying about my fans. They will understand.
They do not understand.
In fact, they seem pretty pissed off that I am not writing at all, but my life, my heart, my soul, so full of missing plotlines, drenched with the strange goo of blankness, what am I supposed to do? I only have so much words that cannot be used, my friends, and if I use them to finish this series, then what would be of me, the writer, the most important person in the moment of writing? What would it mean for me if I have to put in any effort to get to finish a line, to think of words and sentences and love making sessions in such a way that you would like them? It is hard for me, as it is hard for you to hear.
But they don’t buy my explanation, so I am of course branded and punished as a writer should always be: be spanked by a thread in a guillotine swamp and finish the story or suffer the consequences of being lame.
Do not start fiction that you do not intend to finish!, the fans scream in my face.
But I am dead, I am dead, do you not see?, I try to pretend but, once again, my clever schemes get me nowhere.
So I am forced to write the things that I am missing, every waking moment of my days, every hungry moments of my nights, and then, there it is, after ten years, three months, and seven days, the fictional series that is in my head is finished and released to the world and the fans, and they do not like it, and I do not like it, but it is over, and that is enough for me and my sickened minds and libido.
I love to write, of course, my friends, but I also love to love writing. Aren’t written words much more beautiful in my head?