I'm not a fan of the urge to write when there's nothing to write. And I just had the epiphany to share with you all my most gnarly poem ever (A sonnet. Who would have thought, right?) but then I remembered I was a good student and turned that in to my ingles teacher and I'm at the school so I don't have it saved on my hard drive.
Hmm. Predicament, eh?
I don't know why I'm being so prudent and spunky (is that a contradiction? Sometimes I just write the words that pop in my head, and I'm too lazy to correct myself right now so...) I guess it's just been a long time since I've written as Erica the teenager instead of Erica the attempting-to-be-sophisticated-author-who-harnesses-the-feelings-of-the-world-in-general-and-somehow-relates-to-all-mankind. Now, naturally you can see why I'm opting to be regular Erica, because other Erica takes much much too much time to introduce.
But I don't have anything to say to you. And I have this urge to write.
I keep waiting for the big exposition to come crashing through my fibers, but it's not. So I suppose the lesson is is when you're waiting for rehearsal to start and your whole soul is interwoven into your character, the urge you feel to write is not your urge at all. And it isn't even an urge to write. It's Donna Lucia d'Alvadorez wanting you to open the parasol and kiss a boy.