Yesterday, I spent two hours researching Brazilian Wandering spiders for this book I’m writing.
You want to know why?
I do too.
Because now I’m really creeped out and I’m not even sure it’s a Brazilian Wandering spider that I need – although the idea is intriguing. I wish I could elaborate but I honestly have no fucking clue what’s going on. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, in my head – one which no one can see or hear and most don’t even know it’s happening. But I know.
And I can’t get away from it.
I have this outline of how it goes and I know how it ends. It’s just the middle part that is killing me. I am stymied.
Do you ever get stuck in the middle? What do you do when you get there? Because I’m telling you right now, I have no effing clue. I usually dink around for a while on Facebook, maybe take the dog on a walk. If it persists, I will go from incidental time wasters to serious chunks of time devoted to the mundane – dental appointments, oil changes, paperwork. I hate paperwork and yet, three days ago, I started doing the the taxes.
Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are.
Of course, the entire time, my brain was singing the Doom song by Gir, which is why I won’t be surprised when the IRS shows up to ask us about that $12k we spent on solar-powered ladders last year.
It’s kind of surprising that my husband trusts me with stuff like filing the taxes. I’m not the greatest at paying bills. I’m pretty terrible at grocery shopping too. Hell, I have a hard time remembering to eat lunch – and I write at the kitchen table. Maybe he just assumes I’m going to run out of ideas sometime between January 1st and April 15th every year.
Actually, that would be an eerily valid strategy on his part.
Another procrastination tactic I’ve noticed is that I get micro-interested in weird shit. Currently, I am obsessing over an eagle that has taken up residence in our neighborhood. No one else seems to care as much as I do but in my defense, he is majestic as fuck and also I HAVE A BALD EAGLE FOR A NEIGHBOR. DO YOU HAVE A BALD EAGLE FOR A NEIGHBOR? BECAUSE I DO AND IT IS AWESOME.
I named him Berlioz. In case you were wondering.
I am almost positive that Berlioz is deliberately messing with me though because every time I try to find him, he’s not there. And when I’m not trying to find him he pops up out of nowhere (but usually the sky). The other day, he followed me halfway to my grandma’s house. Thor Michaelson was the only one in the car with me so I couldn’t actually prove to anyone he was there.
Eagles can be bastards that way.
The same stuck-in-the-middle thing happened with the last book I wrote. I pissed and moaned for about a month before I was able to find the threads that tied everything up at the end. It was not easy. I was probably a bitch to live with.
Sometimes I feel bad for my family.
Other times, not so much.
And yet, the fact that it happened last time heartens me. It means that, although I’m wicked stuck right now and have no idea why the hell that character is at a park and ride, how to make the pizza better or where the damn spider comes in, anecdotally I can totally do this.
I mean, I’ve done it before. Which means that somewhere, down deep, my brain knows how to fix this. There is a pattern or a process that I have employed and I could probably do that again, if I think about it long enough.
But first, Thor Michaelson needs to go out on a walk.