Tickety, tickety, tickety--stop. The computer keys fall silent. Fear grips me and I sit frozen in place, waiting. Waiting some more. An idea, finally, for my protagonist's response to a horrific element in the story:
      "Fear grips her. She stands frozen in place, unable to move. Waiting. Waiting some more."
      The dictionary describes schizophrenia as characterized in varying degrees by irrational thinking, disturbed emotions and bizarre behavior.
      Irrational thinking? Not me. Just because I deleted that last sentence, turned off the computer, and decided that cleaning under the refrigerator for the first time in eleven years is suddenly more important? C'mon. I'm as normal as the next writer. I simply needed something a little, well, manual, to get the creative process working again. There's nothing else I can do. Or is there?
      Disturbed emotions?
      They were wrong there too. Okay, okay. So I have a stack of true crime books, horror, and terrorist thrillers on the bedside table for a little pre-sleep reading. Doesn't everyone? Nothing wrong with that. Ditto the gargoyles, skulls and cardboard coffin in my office. Disturbed emotions? Nah. I wish I could say the same for the carpet cleaner that laid rubber in my driveway after a cursory glance around the place.
      Not to worry. A toothbrush took care of cleaning the driveway when Chapter 5 failed to meet my expectations.
      And what about this bizarre behavior stuff? Horse hockey. I write because I want to, because I have to. Nothing wrong with that. So I wrote:
      "She picked up her glasses by the--"
      Bridge? No? By the arm? Is it called an arm, a stem, what? Forget it. She doesn't need glasses anyway. Delete.
      "Her eyes widened."
      My eyes widen in sympathetic reaction.
      "She clenched her fist."
      I clench my fist, pound the keys and find that the words on the screen have taken on a Scandinavian feel. You know what I mean, a lot of consonants and vowels that don't make sense in the context. It doesn't really matter though, since my eyes have dried out from being sympathetic to my character, my vision blurred, and I'll never be able to blink again.
      Maybe now I can be a cover girl.
      I'd hunt for my glasses, but I don't know what to call the part that I'd be grabbing.
      Better to find something else to do for a while. See "irrational thinking" above. For lack of a better plan, I decided to look up "writer" in the same dictionary. The short, very short, definition includes the philosophical "one who writes." Hmm. And suddenly I know that there has to be more to this and, further, I've got to get out more. And I don't mean just to conventions.
      We writers lead a solitary life. Some looking in from the outside have even gone so far as to make the writer's life romantic. Can you believe that? They think that we sit around giving interviews to Barbara Walters, petting our rare breed dogs and brushing dust off our leather elbow patches. Little do they know that romance only enters the picture when our computer icons smile at us while the machine is booting.
      So I got out and went to, of course, a bookstore. Guess what I found. Books. Even magazines and newspapers. Lots and lots of them. And on a variety of topics outside what I prefer to write. Now this was a bit of shock considering that I'd isolated myself with my romantic computer and libidinous word processor to the point of toeing the edge of schizophrenia. Ideas were all over that store. New thoughts and perspectives peered out at me from shelves that didn't swim in black or red covers.
      And then I became very bold. I went to live theatre and watched characterizations unfold through dialogue and setting. Movies presented yet another angle. Suddenly I had to ask questions. What is that made me cry or laughs out loud, or was simply entertaining? What made it work, or not work?
      The writing.
      Hmmm.
      As if that wasn't enough, I started to study people. A mall, a restaurant, a park or even a public transportation port will do. I saw: A lady, jaw tight, coaxing a child to stand and walk while whispering in headed tones "Walk normal"; A man spewing forth biblical quotes while pushing a shopping cart filled with cardboard; A disabled child smiling at her parents for a newly received gift; An elderly man horrified that he set off the security alarm after buying intimate clothing for this wife.
      On and on it went until it occurred to me that getting out was important. Out there is grist for my writing mill. In reading outside my genre, in mediums other than the written word, and in people outside those I create in my mind, is a wealth of material I can draw on for future writing projects.
      Or I can go back to discovering the joys of cleaning the bathroom when my creativity runs dry. With that kind of choice, schizophrenia suddenly looks like a lot more fun. I wouldn't know for sure though. The unfinished manuscript waits for me, true, but the engine in my car needs to be built too. How long could it take? After that, I could move the fireplace and start a winery.
      Or maybe take the time to see what's happening all around me. You know, keep my eyes open, take a few notes, read something differently, and get out more often. Now there's an idea.
      Chapter Eight will be better for it?
      Schizophrenic? Me? No, but sometimes the lines aren't quite so clear any more. I'm working on it.