Call the doctor! I need a cure!

Call the doctor! I need a cure!

I am beginning to think that I have developed a medical condition that is effecting my writing.  I am not sure how rare it is, but I haven’t heard anyone talk about it.  In fact, I have done a thorough and exhaustive search of the internet trying to see if I can find out more information about it.  Hoping to find a cure.  I have even checked WebMD from end to end to find a clue as to how I contracted this condition and how I can possibly get rid of it. 

Maybe if I describe it, you can tell me if you know of any cure.  Oh for the love of all things good and right in this world, please someone have a cure.

You see, lately, I have been able to come up with some really great ideas for writing.  Ideas for entries here on the blog.  Ideas for great essays for other publications.  Ideas to query magazines with.  I’ve even been inspired to add a couple of new chapters in my book.  I am talking the Muse has been with me. 

Apparently, my Muse really likes to visit me when I am active.  Washing dishes.  Cleaning house.  Driving my car.  And yes, even an idea or two as I lay down to sleep.  I have even gone as far as jotting down notes.  (They don’t call me Dory around here for nothing.  I know I need reminder notes.)

Armed with my notes, my ideas and a block of time dedicated to writing, I approach my computer, pull out my chair and sit down.

That is when it happens.

What happens? you may ask.  Well, as soon as my ass hits the chair, the ideas disappear.  Literally.  I haven’t found any documented cases, but I do believe I have a delete key on my ass that is directly connected to the idea center of my brain.  Sit down.  Ideas vanish.  Get up and work.  Ideas return.  Brilliant ideas.  Humorous ideas.  Ideas that will take an essay from bland to byline.  From plain to published.

Then I sit down.

Ass hits the delete key and I no longer have any idea what I was going to say.  Oh sure, the general idea is still there.  The concept is still there.  The brilliant way I had it worded?  Deleted.  The humorous way I set it up?  Gone. 

The first impulse is to try to write standing up.  It doesn’t work.  I’ve tried it.  Apparently, the is something in all keyboards that triggers phones to ring, children to fight and dogs to bark in order to disrupt any chance of fooling the ass delete key. 

Now, I know that other people have conditions much worse than mine. But, for a writer, this is critical.  Am I to suffer alone?  Is there a cure?  A support group? 

Oh for the love of nondeleting asses everywhere, give me a cure!


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