Sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to get started. At least that's the way it is for me. Maybe I'll never make a living writing even though I would like to. Would it be so bad in that case to write only because it gives some satisfaction to you? Some joy even? When the morning passes though, and there are no new words it can be a little daunting but really.....

You know what? Screw that! I've said that or a variation of that a thousand times before and for what? I don't think it ever changes. It just changes disguise because no matter how good you are you can always be better, right?

Maybe you have only to be in the same room with a blank piece of paper and the ideas swarm you like a plague of yellowjackets a best seller scribbles itself onto the white sheet because it was inevitably going to happen anyway so the universe rearranged itself to save you the trouble.
I hate you.
Self Loathing is the hallmark of all struggling writers.
Thats it.
What, I ask, is the godforsaken point!?
bvbvggtttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttjkhjkk (head falls on keyboard))))

ELVIS: The point is this.

Writer: Jesus! (head snaps up)

ELVIS: Thank you but no.

Writer: Elvis!? Where the hell did you come from? You're dead aren't you? Oh my God, I should have stayed on those pills.

Why are you wearing my pajamas?

ELVIS: I just like flannel. Don't dig on the pills man, trust me. It doesn't matter where I came from. You called me is all.

Now listen, I don't have much time but I might be able to help you. You want to put the chair down. Now you asked for help didn't you? Why don't you tell me what you need help with and I'll see what I can do.

Writer: You, you want to help me?

ELVIS: That's what I said.

Writer: Yes but... Oh whatever - it's my neurological event, I might as well enjoy it.

ELVIS: Well?

Writer: Well? Where do I start Elvis? NaNoWriMo is in a month and I can't even get my regular words to go down on paper. I just got a blog and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to with it; I expect feed it something. My wife isn't attracted to me, she thinks I'm a loser. I got this bump that I don't know what the hell it is...

ELVIS: Stop twitchin' man, you're acting like a startled chicken. Look here boss.
Writer: What?

ELVIS: What the hell is NaNoWhatsit?

Writer: National Novel Writing Month. It's a - I've got to write 50,000 words of a novel in thirty days and I haven't even completed outlining it. It's just like I've forgotten what I'm doing, where I was going. Everything. I feel like I'm lost and I need to find my way out.

ELVIS: Sounds serious. What's the problem?

Writer: What?

ELVIS: Your problem. The one thats cutting into my dry hump session with the lady clerk down at the gas station?

Writer: My problem? But I just told you what my problem was. By the way did I ask about my pajamas?

ELVIS: No that's not your problem, your problem is that you need to take the first step. Your like a child who wants to go out and check his mailbox and yells that he can't make it back to the house.

Writer: How is it like that? How is my writing like a mailbox?

ELVIS: It don't have to be a mailbox man. Maybe you want to go pet a duck; it's a euphemism ya dig. The thing is you haven't even made it to the mailbox. You can see the mailbox, but you can't get to it. Who knows, maybe there's a big dog out there, wants to bite your nuts off the second you hit the sidewalk.

Writer: You mean I should wear a sports cup or something?

ELVIS: No listen you've got to stay with me kid. It's a euphemism, or a metephore. That's it, the dog is a metaphor. It represents something that's in your way.

Writer: The people across the street have a pekingese.

ELVIS: Oh, well, I didn't know that. There are birds out there too, you didn't think of that did you? No you're right, if the dog doesn't get you then there's an eagle that wants to buzz you like a radio tower and shred you face when you stop moving. You see? You don't want to go out there because the animals might kill you.

Writer: That's horrible. How does that help me Elvis?

ELVIS: My point is you sound like an agoraphobic.

Writer: Hey Bubba, that's a serious mental illness. You should have a little sympathy for people like that.

ELVIS: Sympathy? You want to know sympathy? I got caught on the bus for six hours and by the time I got to the office at the Muse Department there were only two slips left. After this I'm teaching a dolphin to play the drums.

Writer: Maybe you picked the wrong career path. Good luck with the porpoise.

ELVIS: Oh right, sorry about that wise ass, but sometimes there isn't a whole lot of workload preference pertainin to tryin to get stubburn, obsessive writers to do what they love to do.

Writing.

That's, like, what you guys do, right? It's isn't just sitting there with a look on your face like you're trying to part you hair without touching it? Cuz that's what you were doing when I came in.

Writer: I was not doing that.

ELVIS: Were too.

Writer: I was Not!

ELVIS: Were too. Infinity.

Writer: I was nn*... Your childish.

ELVIS: No I'm dead Hoss. But look even though I started kickin flies I can still take care of Bin'ness. You might think about that. You can too but your not. What's your excuse?

Writer: I guess I don't have one. But I don't really need an excuse to be stuck do I? ... Well Elvis? Do I.

ELVIS: (sniffing his sleeve) Man this fabric softner, you got no idea man, what kind is this?

Writer: It's Mountain River tm.

Elvis: It's jus wonderful... Aw Shucks man. Sorry. Listen. The only thing you gotta do is take the first step, but you gotta do it expecting to take the next one, ya dig? And eventually, you know, you'll be able to play the guitar.

Writer: You mean write?

ELVIS: Damn skippy I do. I'm a christian ain't I?

Writer: No, I mean that I... uh, do you have A.D.D.?

ELVIS: What was that?

Writer: Nothing, just...
I mean, nevermind. Yes - yes your Highness.

ELVIS: Alright. Listen up. You lost somethin', but you know it's here somewhere. So sit down and take another look. Your path is always where you left it. Remember that, and you'll be gyrating stead of swattin' at the air like a crazed chimp. How's that sound?

Writer: "Your path is where you left it." (Looking at the blank screen. He brings up a new page.) "Your path is where you left it."

ELVIS: You got it baby. -snaps his fingers- *poof* (a business card with a small picture of blue wingtip shoes, footloose, with the heels pointing to the sky appears)

ELVIS: You need me -snap- just holler.

(But the writer is back at work.)
ELVIS begins to leave.

Writer: Hey E.

ELVIS: Yeah baby.

Writer: Keep the pajamas.

Elvis: Thank you. -points a finger- Now take care of Bin' ess

(walks out singing "In the Ghetto" and sniffing the collar of the flannel PJs.)


------------ That is really a corny way of saying that this takes baby-steps and it seems to me that it is never going to be easy. Why should it be. Would it be quite as fun then?
If it is that easy, then maybe your not doing it right. If you are doing it at all is the thing. That's the first step.

Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
That the moment one definately commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision raising in one's favour all manner of unforseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamt would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.

Begin it now.

----Goethe