Those Notes

First, the confessional.

I have been writing like crap on the project that is currently on my active list. Oh, I've fleshed out three other stories - two literary and one pulp - but the one I need to finish has proved to be a beast.

I had to take three runs at a long dialogue to get the tone correct.

The first run was great Woody Allen stuff. We've all seen _Bananas_ a coupe of times by now and don't need more from me.

The second was Albert Brooks all the way through. I like the aroma of dismay and confusion but that wasn't correct for this work either.

Finally, I have hit upon my tone. I have the twist and a couple small turns that I enjoy and which I want on the page.

I also have definitely decided to craft the pulp for give-away content. I've written a number of pieces through the years for my buddies. Some have been tolerable and some merely can be said to have been in English. Nevertheless, I do like writing short bits for fun.

Now, today I find yet another pocket completely full of notes and scribbles.. I do this while I'm at the day job. I come home with a handful of scene ideas or a caution or a "try this" or sometimes a little piece of dialog.

It is a hazard of having a day job that is all about just thinking about stuff. Horrible, isn't it? I have this great day gig where I think about how to do the most abstract of things and as I get up to get a cup of coffee I'll think something like: he should feed his political opponent to a pool of crocodiles. Or, today: missing husband has an envelope behind his doctor of engineering diploma labeled "in the event of my unfortunate demise."

I wonder if I'm the only one who has this small stack of brilliance to look at in the evening and reflect: WTF ?

I cannot be alone in this growing eccentricity. Please.