WIP it good...

I have no idea what the hell I am doing.

I open up a fresh, shiny, new word document and watch the cursor blink. I want to write something fun and dark and majestic. I want people to mull over my story for years, discuss the intricate details laced throughout, like a thorny branch through a nautilus (whatever that means). And as much as I despise Oprah, one day I want to go on her show and talk about my book.

I could be like, "Yo, Oprah, I hate you and all but it's nice that you like my book. Because of your stamp, my book sold a million copies and I'm grateful, even though I think you are some kind of something."

So I did that. I opened up a new document and let the first line beat out (much like I did last year for my first completed novel). Again I was surprised at the outcome:

A man walked into a convenience store holding a bow and arrow. The clerk, a young teenage girl wearing too much makeup and chewing bubble gum, looked up at him as if he had five heads. He stopped in front of her, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and drew it back. The gum fell out of her mouth as her jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Give me all the cash in the cash register.” He said gruffly.

Not at all what I expected to roll of my fingers. Apparently, I am knee deep in a thriller right now. Because only a few pages later this man takes said clerk hostage (just for shits and giggles). He licks her face at one point--not from sheer sexual desire but because it felt like the right thing to do. His name is Frank, and he likes the gravy at some country restaraunt on the outskirts of town.

Who the hell is Frank? Why, of all things, is THIS the junk that came out of me yesterday evening? I can ponder a million ideas, but why is it that when I sit down to write them, this kind of random stuff is what comes out?

It's like I have to write the rest of the story, just to see what this nonsense is in the first chapter. And, like last time, the ideas are budding from that one paragraph and in my head is this monster story, complete with characters and plots and ideas, that, two seconds before I opened my word document were not even figments of my imagination.

It's not like I can blame drugs. I don't do drugs (although I wonder what kind of stuff I would write if I did). I can't be like "Oh, fiddlesticks, I blame crack." And I don't drink that much. Once every few weeks or so. I was sober at the time.

Maybe it's Jesus. Maybe the Lord wants me to write about a guy who holds up convenience stores with a bow and arrow and takes clerks hostage. Perhaps the universe was all created for this moment...a moment to tell the quirky comedic thriller that is rolling off my fingers. The meaning of life itself...to lick your hostage's face while driving in your primer grey pickup truck listening to Dwight Yoakum.

Yee haw. Woopdie doo. I got a new WIP and it's whipping me good.