Mission Semi-Impossible: Day Eight: The Big Let Down

The E Hasselbeck Pregnancy Watch: Thanks to Trina, who thanks Yahoo news, who thanks the Associated Press, who thanks the unnamed writer of the story, we have confirmed that the View's Elisabeth Hasselbeck and her tooth brushing ploy didn't have any effect on her husband's libido: She is pregnant again. No word on what they plan on naming the baby, but sources close to the state of Washington inform me that it probably won't be "Raven". When asked to comment, Barbara Walters said, "Wait. I thought I was on 20/20."We will continue to bring you information you probably don't need about a show only I seem to care about as it becomes available.

Words: 1045
Feelings: Let Down, Disappointment, Fatigue, Athlete's Foot?

Fears: I can't think of anything to write about, I can't develop any of my characters in the ways that I want to, E Hass won't even consider naming her new kid (boy or girl) Kevin Alexander because she's selfish and doesn't check her email, I have what looks like a splinter in the side of my face which explains my father's sudden desire to "get take-out", I was not invited to be a contestant on the new CBS reality show called "Pirate Master" (seriously. that's seriously a new show) .

Thoughts: Looking back, it was inevitable. You write a crucial climatic scene, you feel good about it, your word count is high, your cholesterol is low, you don't have any splinters and definitely none near your face, you just have to expect you're going to get burnt. Out.

And burnt I got, to the tune of 8 hours, 1000 words. According to my math background that's like one word every... um, sh*t. See how hard this is?

I tried, friends. I tried so hard to keep it going, but I literally couldn't think of anything to write. I knew that the chapter following the big climatic chapter would be sort of a transitional chapter, a "come-down" chapter, I had a vague (three line) outline of what needed to happen in said chapter, I refilled my Earl Grey tea four different times, I was wearing comfortable pants and clean undieskins, and still, still...empty. The fact that I managed to even get 1000 words is a testament to my refusal to get up and use the bathroom until that was so, even though almost everything I wrote was a self-parody of a self-parody of my actual work.

Even enjoying a California Club Pizza from CPK in the company of my father did nothing to shake up the "creative juices".

"I believe the term is stir up the creative juices," said my dad.

See, friends? See the environment that I'm working in? How can anyone get good work done when their father clearly doesn't love them? Or, maybe worse, does love them, which leaves them with no angst, bitterness or pent up aggression to pour onto the page?

Join me tomorrow when I overcome these setbacks and drop 2000 words worth of digitized magic before finding out that the splinter in my face is just an ingrown hair.

I Guess You're Just What I Needed,

The,
Cars

PS- Pictured Below: The Show I couldn't get on, Barbara and Rosie in a rare embrace, and the pizza that, despite being delicious, failed to get me my groove back.