We (finally) went and saw Stranger than Fiction. (I mentioned it forever ago). What a cool movie. It reminded me why I’m doing all this. Why I quit my job, why I am trying to get 50,000 words on paper in 30 like 15 days. I think like a book.

Believe me I know that I am perpetually inarticulate and surface in person. I can’t lie. But you wouldn’t exactly want to be at a bar with me and have me spouting descriptions of the soft flowing breeze that I notice drawing itself to you from the ceiling fan covered in lint that makes you wiggle your nose in a gesture you think no one notices that makes you a delight in my eyes and the ones of those around you.

I’m just saying.

So I’m an idiot in person. I don’t say or do the right things.

In a novel, I can put on whatever music I want, and make people do anything. And it can mean something. I can have things I can’t in real life. I can be thought provoking, make characters that let you know I’m more insightful than you know.
The story to the movie wasn’t what spoke to me, it was the descriptions. That’s how I think. It’s in my veins, and now it’s my job to take that, make it travel to the tips of my fingers and to the laptop I complain about and beat occasionally.

That is why I want to be a writer.


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