Today, I will write something profound. It will be the sort of insightful, inspirational thing that will be plastered over pictures of mountains or some other stunning vista. A line that will live on well past my own brief lifespan. It will make me millions when it gets plastered over birthday cards, cute home ornaments and tea towels.
Only, it won’t.
The words will get hi-jacked. Stolen. Used out of context and warped until all meaning is lost and it becomes another empty phrase people grow to resent before they move on. Nobody will remember my name as being the first person to say it.
Or, if they do, it’ll be because they hate me for it. “Oh, I see; you’re that person. The one that said that thing that all insane middle-aged women have framed in the kitchen. You’re the biggest tool since the person that said “God Bless This Mess”. Whoever that was.”
But no, I have to stay the course. Someone will be inspired by it. Someone will love it. It might make someone smile. It might make someone think.
So I have to write something profound.
But I have no plan. Oh God, do I need a plan? What if it is just waffle? Worse – what if that single line is a spark that ignites an inferno of ideas? I need to be organised, or how will what I create ever make the blindest bit of difference to anyone?
Though… what if I don’t need a plan. What if I just let it all flow? Will that help? Will it make it better? Can I even do that?
No. Calm down. You’re getting ahead of yourself.
Just write something down. It doesn’t matter what. What was it he had said? “Quit your bitching, stop overthinking it and just type.” Maybe there’s something to it.
No. No, it needs weight. Meaning. It can’t just be any old crap.
God, why can’t I just start this?
He’s staring at me again. He knows I’m not doing anything and I’m just sat here in front of the computer. I’ve pressed keys. I’ve made notes. What more does he want? Why can’t he just back off and let me write?
If he tells me to “relax” and “get on with it” one more time I’m going to go ballistic.
“Want a cup of tea, love?”
Oh yeah, sure. You’re not trying to create. Easy for you with your bloody tea making you colossal ponce. I’m trying to forge universes here. Mighty political and social machines are at work, weaving entire worlds in which fates play out and the elaborate dance of life carries on in a whirl of loves and losses, comings and goings. Victories are snatched in heroic style and evil rampages unchecked.
And you want to know if I want some tea? You idiot. Can’t you see I’m working? Yes, to you it might look like I’m staring at a blank screen and fiddling with a pen, but I’m twisting the very fabric of reality around me. I’m trying to pour my heart and soul into something that will resonate through the ages, entertain and enlighten generations to come.
And you want to know if I’d like some tea? I should destroy you where you stand. How dare you attempt to derail this process. I’m God here, you insect. Do you understand me? God. No more, no less.
If only I could find the words to make this profound. That would show him. It would be a line with weight and emotional depth, but still with a lightness to it. I’d have a plan but be flexible and improvise, bend to my new universes’ will while also guiding it.
That would show him how insignificant his tea really is.
But I can’t make this happen. Not yet.
There’s no spark. There’s no lightning bolt of inspiration to start the mighty creative machine. No tea to throw my characters into. Wait – That’s not right. No plot to throw my tea into. That’s better.
No it isn’t.
I just need to concentrate. If I do that, then I can tea. If I tea, then I can tea the tea-tea.
I clear my throat, shaking away the storm of thoughts as though my mind were an… Etch-a-Sketch. Or something.
“Yes, please,” I murmur, begrudgingly dragged back into the real world. The one where I’m not God.
I do my best to make it sound like I don’t want to kill him.