Large palm print in the middle of my forehead.

Okay, here's the super-dumb-ass moment I had.

I started writing another play. Not coming quite as easily as the first (don't think I'll get that lucky too many times), but I'm kind of interested in seeing how it will all come out. In fact, I'm thinking of taking a few vacation days to get out of town, and really concentrate on getting some words on paper.

But, as I looked down on the page, I thought, Gee, I really wish I could put all this energy into writing a real novel. You know. A nice fat book. But, well, you know. I don't really like writing all the exposition stuff. The "it was a dark and stormy night" stuff or the "Bob and Jill were standing in the famers market when" stuff. Whenever I have a good idea, and I start writing that blah, blah, blah stuff, it all just fizzles into nothing, and I never get anywhere. I could write a whole epic if it were all just dialogue. I love writing dialogue. Too bad you can't write a whole book that's just dia . . . wait.

A whole book with just dialogue. Don't you just call that a play?

Doh!

I just sat there with the stupidest look ever on my face. It's like I've been locked in a box for years, and never looked up to see that there's an escape hatch in the ceiling. I hate it when that happens.

Now I'm just getting over the part about being a person who writes plays. I mean, who does that? Nobody normal. Books, short stories, novellas, godhelpus, poetry. Those are all pretty normal people things to write. But plays? That's just whackadoodle. But I'll get over it.

And as I heard Lilith Saintcrow mention on her blog, who loses if I don't write? If I don't do something that I like doing that costs virtually nothing? Um, that would be me. So, screw it. I'm just going to take up my whackadoodle little hobby and damn the consequences. Of which there actually aren't any. Other than being slightly more whackadoodle than I was 5 minutes ago. Who'd notice?