I wrote myself into a bit of a dead end on House of Cards last week, and I’m struggling to find my way out.
It’s way too hot here to take the long walks I usually take when this happens, and I feel that compulsion to write something, anything creative, so I fired up Ficlets and re-read one of Will Hindmarch’s stories that I really liked a few months ago:
It isn’t like peeling an orange. It isn’t like popping a walnut. Skulls are harder than I’d imagined.
How long do I have, now? I’m still here, enough to know this is wrong, but I love my wife and I love my kids and I want to hold onto those memories and for that I need a brain.
I was instantly inspired to add to Will’s creation, so I wrote one of my own:
It isn’t like hunting deer. They’re smarter than deer. It isn’t like hunting fox or rabbits. They’re slower and more unpredictable. Hunting and killing the undead is harder than I imagined.
But I love my wife and kids, and I know that I’m all that’s standing between them and this monster.
It’s not World War Z or anything, and I still haven’t found my way out of this dead end, but it’s a great way to just keep writing, and it’s fun, too.
