Frustrated

It’s late here in Missouri. Late. I’ve been sitting at the computer, guitar in hand, staring at a chorus for the last two and a half hours. Can I get a verse, for the love of Mike? A noun, verb, adjective, anything, please, give me something. I like the chorus too much to give up on it. It has legs and wants to walk. I know it. For now, it’s just lying there all gimpy and angry at me for treating a good idea that way. Gentle readers that’s no way to treat a hook. I should be ashamed. In fact, I should have my Wanna-Be-writer's card revoked.

If my grandmother were alive, she’d call the ball. “Son, you ain’t regular like you should be.” Metaphorically and literally she would be correct. I need a writer’s two pound bran muffin and a thirty two ounce jug of literary prune juice for I am STUCK I say unto thee!

Can you hear it? The chorus, it’s mocking me now. “Tony Wood would’ve had it cut by now. Avalon and Mark Harris would be in court fighting over the rights to the song.” “Sue Smith would have turned it into six musicals, three songs, two blogs, a choral piece, and a book deal, rookie.” I can hear Belinda say “Gang, I wouldn’t feed that to Pete.” Literally, it just told me Joel Lindsey would punch me in the mouth. That just happened.

Some would say I’ve gone completely crazy. I would argue the “completely” part. Obviously there are some significant things I’m missing. Like, oh I don’t know, the ability to finish…anything. I’m going to sit in the corner, slowly rock back and forth, and suck my thumb until I find my happy place.

I’m out!