It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group, where we share our innermost feelings under the guidance of our fearless leader Alex J. Cavanaugh. The group has grown so large that he has deputized other volunteers to assist in his patrol. Be sure to visit this vast array of amazing authors who are always willing to offer their support.
The wonderful thing about this group is no matter where you are on the list, someone will welcome you with open arms. You don't have to worry about being noticed. This frees you to worry about everything else instead.
For example, lately I've been struggling with originality. Not only do I wonder if I've unconsciously taken someone else's ideas, but I also wonder if I've recycled some of my own. I fear that I'm turning into the crazy aunt who sits in the corner muttering the same stories over and over again, while the children are instructed to politely nod and smile. Eventually the stories will drag on as long as my chin hairs, and no one will say a word about either irritation. On the bright side, it only takes minutes for me to pass out in a comfortable chair.
The other day an elderly man came over to give me an estimate on "dustless" wood floor sanding. I was very concerned when he got down on his hands and knees to measure the floor. Miraculously, he was able to gracefully spring up on his feet like a gazelle. His knees didn't buckle, his bones didn't creak, and his cap didn't sway. It only fueled my desire when this ninety-year-old, five foot two Valentino was able to hear every word I said.
After he left I started typing away. The words were flying off of the page. I was writing chapter after chapter with a reckless abandon. I was grateful that I had finally found my muse. When I reached the halfway mark, I decided to take a cold shower. My husband drew me a rose petal bath instead.
As I was about to go back to work, my husband insisted that I have something to eat. He prepared a lovely meal that we ate in matching robes in front of the TV. We watched a classic film that was wildly romantic, yet strangely familiar. Though I had never seen this love story before, it was haunting me.
At the end of the movie, my worst fears were realized. I pulled the chair closer to the bear skin rug, and tried to slowly pull myself up from the floor. When that didn't work, I took the belt off of my robe, and wrapped it around the chair like a pulley. A moment later, my husband awoke, and dragged me along the room. Then I grabbed my manuscript, and threw it into the fire. He tried to stop me, but I told him that my story was already made into a Marlon Brando movie from the seventies. Aside from the fact that my tale took place in Pittsburgh, it was almost identical to The Last Tango In Paris.
