I tried to work on my book, both yesterday and today, but was unable to get to write, indeed, could not get on with my life.
Because I am a member of the 12’s. When Russell Wilson passed from the 1-yard line at the end of the Super Bowl and the ball was picked off by a Patriot (they are not really patriots, they are redcoats) my hear sank. I was shocked, devastated, disheartened, discombobulated; my spirit crushed, my heart broken. Monday I got up after a sleepless night in a depressed state.
I considered suicide. I don’t have a gun. I can’t cut my wrists-too messy-and I don’t want to see my blood oozing out. I have thought of different methods and the best I could come up with was suicide by maple bars. Eating them until my stomach exploded. It seemed a good way to go. Who doesn’t love maple bars. Then I realized maple is associated with the New England area. Vermont may be the maple capital of the world. I would not give those redcoats the satisfaction.
Glazed doughnuts won’t work. My fingers get too sticky.
So I listen to ESPN radio in Seattle where the sports jocks listen to callers who rant and rave, dissecting the PLAY, and the entire game in general. It is called therapy. I need to hear others pain, hear their anger, sympathize with their moans and groans. It’s not working. Dreams of maple bars fill my head.
There are two positives out of this. One, any writer needs an excuse to not write and now I have a good one. A second is that a writer needs to see stories and now I have one. Playing the ‘what if’ game I can write a short story about a writer devastated by the loss of a Super Bowl and decides to commit suicide by eating maple bars.
I am now heading to every grocery store I can find to buy maple bars. I call it research.
In case I accidently die by maple bars you can find my finished e-novels at Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/Terry-Nelson/e/B00EEVHN38