I was being far too clever for my boots and knew that the guillotine was quivering above my head. Yes, I was stubborn. Who amongst you would admit to being so scared to sit down and write that you could barely contemplate the thought? I had become the dreaded chicken; a yellow-bellied poltroon. I was in a dastardly funk. All the writers are most likely salivating over all these synonyms- free bibs anyone?
“I hate to state the obvious, but if you could write the above, surely NaNoWriMo is a slam dunk?”
“I am done with the obvious. I am looking for sentences that fly, paragraphs that sing and a novel that will never be forgotten. Meanwhile, my brain is as frozen as the Arctic Tundra; more lost than a chameleon on a box of Smarties, so lost in fact that not even a Saint Bernard could find me.” I said sulkily.
“Fancy being a singing trapeze artist? You would be able to check singing and flying off your list.”
“Ha, there is a comedian born every minute,” I countered, “besides which I am terrified of heights.
“Well, that was quite a lofty speech! You know, tall, sky-high, towering…” She wisely left it at that.
I folded my scrawny wings and plopped down on the ground, causing minor earthquakes in Wonderland.
“What am I going to do? I applied butt to chair, quietly opening a major vein and still the blood barely trickled. I could have a pair of fangs surgically inserted with which to draw blood and inspiration from others, but what is the point, really? I cannot sparkle; I am not a glitzy person.”