Sometimes, I sit down to write, and I feel overwhelmed. How can I write anything? How can I create? How can I make words that make a story that will make sense to others? It seems impossible.
Sure, I’ve done it before. Sure, I’ve plotted it. Sure, I need to know what I have to write before the end of the day to meet the soft deadline to the editors by Thursday. Sure.
But a rescue cat, his leg amputated, is sitting downstairs, and he’s not eating. But my kid has been acting out because he feels like he needs more attention, because I’ve spent the weekend at the emergency center with the cat. But we need groceries, and right now I don’t have the car, and how will I ever make dinner? But I forgot I was supposed to go to the parent back-to-school night tonight, and I need to figure out how I will get there. But… bills… I have to fix… there is this appointment… I must remember… I don’t know why my father is… what is really going on here and… I should text her, I should text, I forgot–
Then I look at the scene I’ve planned. I review the variables I’ve set this season, last season, the season before that, last episode. I restructure the outline. And I… start to write.
This is what this character will say now. This is what happens when. This is the choice the player must make. This will be fun. This has to happen. There is too much narrative exposition. Go back. Try it again. It isn’t right. Redo it. Write it again. Move that section higher. Restructure the knots. Branch this. Timed choice, choice, add a choice, item. Move it. This is what that character says now. Change the transitional text. What is the time of day again? Will that match the art asset? Review the asset, review the asset plan, make a note, comment it out, and then, write the next scene, and write.
Receive a call. It’s about the–car–from your doctor–the kid–an overdue book–an appointment–the call, a lumber order, the repair–and then I look back at the document, the code, lost.
And then I write again.
I don’t know that I’ve ever had… writer’s block, precisely. Or maybe I always have it. I always sit down, and I’m completely certain I can’t do it, and I know that I can.
I’ve written the outline. I know the variables. I have a plan for the assets. It’s all in place. All that’s left is the trick. And, like a magician reaching into a hat, I can’t see my own hand. I’m looking at the audience. I can’t see your face, your faces, because of the lights. But it’s hot, it’s bright, and my shoes pinch. I’m reaching in, feeling, hoping, that all I’ve done already will be there, all that I’ve imagined, felt, schemed, planned for, that all that preparation meant something, and then deep in the darkness, my fingertips hit soft fur, and I know it’ll be all right. I write.
