Like a Real Writer

Last night I had a meeting with Courtney, the editor of the Cooper-Young newspaper The Lamplighter. Since I've inherited Stacey's monthly "Midtown Mama" column (apparently whether I like it or not), I thought I should find out what it is that I'm supposed to do. Courtney was very nice and we had an enjoyable iced-chai-and-brownie-accompanied chat at Otherlands, which allowed me to escape the house alone on a weeknight for an entire hour. After four days of cleaning up puke and poop in the wake of the evil stomach virus that afflicted us over the weekend, it was almost like a vacation.

Now I just have to think of something to write. That seems to be a theme with me right now. I need to think about things to write in this blog, in my column, and lately, I'm thinking, in a book. Yes, I'm in a "when in the hell am I finally going to write a book" phase. It just seems silly to me that I'm not working on that. Summer is coming and I'll have ten weeks off of work--what better time to start a novel? Sure, I'll have the kids, but couldn't I squeeze in a couple hours a day, at least?

Actually, it's lack of ideas stopping me, not lack of time. Once I know what I want to write about, I know it will happen. I'm just having trouble thinking of a plot and characters--you know, the little things. But I'm thinking, hey, the last Harry Potter book is due out this summer, and then what? People are going to need something new. Why can't I fill that gap? I like to read all this young adult sci-fi/fantasy fic, right? So why can't I write it? Well, because apparently my brain does not want to think up any cool characters with funny names and fantastical habitats. Dammit!.