The plot, um … yeah.

So . . . after yesterday’s fulmination about writing, I went to bed completely excited about the plot to my heretofore-abandoned novel. Seems all the requisite absurdities that were missing from my mental blueprints all fell into place while I was sleeping.

I heard that Thomas Edison became so frustrated with losing the ideas that popped into his head that he ultimately decided to scatter sheet metal around his work bench and take a nap with a ball-bearing in his hand. As he’d fall off the narcoleptic abyss, he’d also drop the ball bearing, wake himself up, and presumably write down another brilliant idea (memo to self: steal from Nicolai Tesla).

I tried it (memo to self: you tend to drool during midweek siestas).

Usually, leaving the rest of my contemplative woodshedding to the Sand Man is useless. I can’t even read a single paragraph lying down without going on the nods.

But aside from that thought, I was also thinking, Ive got twelve followers already, and I’m only ten posts in. The goal here ultimately is visibility and value. Value will help assist the other.

Now, I’m thinking that one value I have is making people laugh, because I have ZERO filter in terms of what I might say–within reason–and I tend to be just schizophrenic enough in my approach, that I’m perhaps reminiscent to a Nickelodeon channel-changing marathon. Either that, or I’m so bad, people want to see me fail–yelling “go ahead and jump!” when I’m inching towards the 33rd floor ledge of a literary disaster with broken elevators.

I have no idea.

END OF TRANSMISSION

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