Writer's Random Rambling

I was told to write a story. To just get back to it. That it would be like riding a bike. It’s a skill I would never loose. Maybe a little wobbly at first, but I wouldn’t fall and skin my knee. They lied. It wasn’t easy. I fell often and none of those who told me I could do it were around to pick me up and tend to my injuries. Now, I sit here at my desk, in front of my keyboard, starring at the blank white piece of paper portrayed on the monitor. My mind reflects that paper. No ideas came then and no ideas are coming now.

What am I suppose to do? The motivation left me long ago. It was a whim to take on this project. “Sure. I could write that!” I told some mother I met at the PTA luncheon after a couple of glasses of wine. “I’ll even do it for free.” At least I don't have the guilt associated with payment. I learned that little nugget of insight when my first book unexpectedly made it to the top seller’s book list. There was even talk of a movie. Of course, that was quantified with the completion of another installment following Miss Priss’s life.

Perhaps that’s when my motivation died. No. That wouldn’t make sense. I was incredibly motivated to produce another great piece of literature. I think it was my inspiration. It was eaten by the cameras and interviews and whispered rumors of a sequel. The quiet time I had dreamed my first book came in the wee hours of the morning as I watched my newborn baby rock in her cradle or the swing. I was exhausted. Lonely. Desperate for help and a man that wouldn’t walk out on me. I had the ability to dream of what my life would have been like if I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and the world on a string. Miss Priss was my coping method.

Now that same sweet girl who would rock next to me is in school. I haven’t been sleep deprived in years. I can have Miss Priss’s life as long as royalties continue to be deposited in my checking account. It is no longer a dream and I certainly don’t need her to cope. In short, she is no longer inspiring. I know if I disclosed this to those who put me on the bike they would just say, “Well what inspires you now? Use that as a spring board.” And again, they would be elsewhere when my work was refused by the publishers and my hands and knees bloodied from the effort.

I need to stop it! None of this is helping me write the story of the school. Why did I agree to this? Two glasses of wine and a little bit of persuasion. I need to tattoo it on my forehead not to drink in public ever again. But then I would drink alone in the privacy of my own home. That could not possibly play out well. Focus! Stay on track. Tomorrow will be here shortly. It is getting late. I am beyond tired and need to get this completed or look like an ass.

Okay. The story of the school. I don’t need a completed piece. I need a rough outline or draft of the first part. Just something to show them. What makes a school unique. Rarely is it the classrooms. Sure, some are better than others as far as design or technology go, but essentially, they are all a cinder block square with desks in the middle. I could highlight teachers. The school has good teachers. They are compassionate and caring. Lots of schools have that. It would be a nice touch. There just isn’t enough to really write something eloquent. The students, however, offer so many more stories. They are the reason for the school. They make the image of the school. In this school, they are diverse. White students (and I hate that term only slightly less than Caucasian) are in the minority if you combine all the other groups together.

I could write about the students. I could request interviews, sit in and observe, write it from the viewpoint of my daughter. She is incredible. Her perspective would be incredibly interesting. Hmmmm…. This has potential. I see so many possibilities. Yes. That is what I am going to present as well as a request for more time to truly develop this. Oh my God! I think I may have found a new kind of inspiration!