Every six months, I decide that I am going to write something. This something is usually a short story. Occasionally, it is a novel. Always, it is basically autobiographical, because I am not good at making things up that aren’t lies to make my life easier, e.g., “No, Verizon customer service representative, I did not repeatedly drop my Droid on concrete, as that would be irresponsible. It vibrated off a slightly sloped, very low table, onto thick-pile carpet. What? Oh. I have no idea how that cracked the screen. Faulty product, obviously.”
The problem is, I am not good at writing like this. I don’t know why I keep trying. It is like Barney Frank deciding to sing opera or Britney Spears promising to wear underwear every day. Some people are not cut out for some things.
And yet. I try. I’m trying now. I have two pages – and that’s single spaced. It will be different this time. There will be a plot, instead of vague and morose character development lasting for ten pages before I get distracted and never come back to it. There will be some pretense of it not being a journal entry. I will not channel Holden Caulfield. I will not start every sentence with the words “I,” “they,” or “the.” And when I fail miserably, as I always do, I will shelve this foolishness and go back to the things I’m actually good at, like telling the internet about interesting scientific progress or what food products I woke up to find on my floor after a night of heavy drinking.
For six months or so.