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Monday, July 16, 2012

My Writebulb Experience

A brilliant insight by Margo - but what's this talk of blame?

I’m registering a serious complaint about this Writebulb business. I want to know what right you think you have to stuff my head full of characters. Don’t say it’s nothing to do with you – all these strange people were certainly not there six months ago. I was just a normal person, going about my normal daily life, no bother to anyone.
Now I wake up in bed every morning with a different man – or woman. They shout at me. Loudly. “Write my story. Get out of bed and write my story.” They won’t give me a moment’s peace till my computer starts melting under my frantic fingers. And I’ve forgotten what breakfast tastes like.
Some of them are really fun guys and I wish they would stay around longer, but sometimes I have trouble remembering which one is me. Then, if I have the cheek to go out without writing their precious stories, they get their own back. When I actually settle down to write they change their minds – which were crystal clear originally – and I lose the thread. And I can do enough of that without their help, thank you.
This morning I woke up with a CB radio operator, full of the unfairness of it all. He had waited 4 long years for the Olympic torch to come to Chelmsford; he had set up all his radio gear and he was looking forward to broadcasting to the biggest world-wide network of his life. Then, of course, disaster struck. I say of course because there wouldn’t be much of a story without a disaster, would there?
Anyway, he hadn’t slept a wink the night before and leapt out of bed at four o’clock to be absolutely sure of making the most of the day.
You’ve guessed it. His bedclothes were so tangled he fell, bang, on the floor. Or rather, he fell, crack, on the floor. His right leg migrated to a strange angle and he didn’t need his wife to tell him he’d gone and broken it. So doubly devastated he spent the morning in A & E on a gurney, in the corner of a corridor, waiting to see a doctor. Nothing but white walls to look at and painkillers for breakfast. By the time he got to the ward it was too late. It was all over, even the shouting. Even worse, his mates would be talking for ever about their morning using his equipment.
You try taking all that in without creasing up, especially while another voice-in-the-head is telling you what a wonderful man she met at a Jubilee party.
Come on Writebulb. Gimme a break. How about sending me an extra pair of hands and another computer to go with them? Then maybe I could write two stories at the same time!
“Don’t get me wrong, you guys-in-my-head. I love you all and I’ll write you all up if you’ll only stop squabbling and form a nice orderly queue, preferably after breakfast.”

Of course, it would be wonderful to find someone who wanted to hear MY story instead. But it doesn’t pay to live in cloud-cuckoo land, does it?

Thanks Margo for giving us all a good laugh! How well we know the frustration that comes when we delay long enough to eat!

1 comment:

  1. Fantastic post! Thanks Margo. I too have characters badgering me to write their stories. Glad to know I'm not the only one who's completely mental. (Wouldn't have it any other way, though.)

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