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'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.
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.