I never understood why people find it entertaining to watch a scary movie. I do not like to be scared. I do not find it entertaining. I do not enjoy it AT ALL – and even though the “background” music usually gives it away beforehand so I can brace myself, sometimes it catches me off guard when the sudden screeching of dissonant chords loudly invades my eardrums as the bulging eyeballs of the skeleton face suddenly appear – plunging up out of the bathtub full of bloody water . . . or whatever.

It TICKS ME OFF every time, and yet – I want to watch the rest of the movie to find out how the story goes because I stupidly get caught up in the characters and find myself interested in what their story is. I do this, totally ignoring the fact that the whole purpose of the seemingly innocuous storyline is to lull me into a false sense of security in the “nice” story so the author (or director) can make me pee my pants at least once every 30 minutes during a 2 hour movie. It’s almost like he’s standing in the back of every theater (or in this case, living room) just waiting to see me jump halfway out of my chair so he can release a devilish roar and bellow, “WELL DONE, freaky music player, WELLLL DOOONNNE!!”

So here I sit – typing this blog post when I’m supposed to be writing. I mean I’m supposed to be working on a project that I need to complete for a personal challenge between a colleague and myself. We said we would each choose one unfinished project and work on it, and it alone, until we complete it – and “encourage” each other (translation: goad) along the way.

You see, I sometimes tend to be one of, “THOSE writers” who gets an idea for a story and tries to get it down on paper before it dissipates. (No problem, right?) The problem comes when we either get so taken with the story that we keep working on it, to the neglect of all the others, or we take it as far as it will go AT THAT MOMENT and then leave it in the “unfinished” folder/file/pile with the “strict” stipulation that whatever becomes of it will be decided “later” by yet-to-be determined criteria.

I’m speaking for myself of course; not daring to point that finger at another because I’m SURE I’m the only writer who has EVER been guilty of this. But you see, this way we can let our minds “run freely” and allow our imaginations to skip here and there instead of choosing to discipline ourselves and actually sit down and do the work – of organizing, planning, and yes – finishing the project.   This we do, somehow managing to convince ourselves that we are still in control of the situation. CLEVER, huh?

So while I sit here trying (not) to write – I’m doing everything under the sun – like filing my nails, cleaning my glasses, vacuuming; (really? vacuuming? you really DON’T want to write today, DO you?) anything I can think of for distraction, one of which is watching a movie about – you guessed it – a writer – with an imagined writer’s block, who writes a best seller while convincing himself that he can no longer write, since the death of his wife.

NOW – once I finally managed to pause Netflix long enough to type these words which were clawing their way to the surface – just to get them off my chest – I managed to also scratch out a thousand words on another topic in between paragraphs of this very blog post.

THAT thousand words, along with a few thousand others will be on the shelves for your enjoyment (or disdain) as soon as time allows.

(Long Sighhh) OK – I’ve had my say for now.  I’m going to bed.  Goodnight all.

Please leave your comments/questions below and I will respond in the morning.


Words are important . . . choose wisely.


Hey, like this? Share it with a friend.

About Admin

WordGal Posted on

Judy’s writing journey began at the ripe old age of 8 when her very first poem was published in the regional publication of the American Library Association.

Her mother was the town librarian and Judy spent many hours hanging out among the books after school. It was there she found her true love . . . words.

Her inborn gift for writing began to blossom and was fueled by her love of reading. Her parents were writers, as well as her grandfather and great grandfather. The little poem she had published was entitled, ‘My Dog’ and vividly described in rhyme, the relationship between young Judy and her dog. However, when asked the name of her dog by the paper’s editor, she reluctantly admitted, “Well . . . I don’t actually have a REAL dog,” and thus began her imaginative journey with pen and paper.


Comments are closed.