This is how it happens with me. I'll be stuck on a story, desperate to write, and just start a whole nother one just to feel the pen in my hand. It's like an addiction. Sometimes I am stupid and make an honest effort at writing a story. Sometimes I am smart and try to talk myself out of it. See below:

I’ve been told repeatedly to write what I know. I’ve never tried it, because it would only take up about half a page and nobody would find it very interesting.

For starters I went to a psychiatrist. He’s a friendly older gentleman who looks like a beardless, guileless Freud, and who charges astronomical fees. Or nearly astronomical anyway. I’ve never had that word ‘astronomical’ explained to me, at least not sufficiently as regards applying it to fees. And I haven’t any money to buy a dictionary because I spent it all on Dr. Rich.

That is his real name, by the way, and not a description.

"Doctor," I said, "I’ve a problem."

He said nothing, only nodded and looked very wise.

"It’s a bit hard to explain—"

"Do your best, my child." No, he didn’t say ‘my child’ I’m making that bit up.

Well, it doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve made this all up. Its meant to be the beginning to a blockbuster, a hit, but it won’t be because I’m just a plain and simple liar and not a very good one at that. I’d write a book called A Liar’s Autobiography but Graham Chapman’s already done that.

I hate doing first person anyhow.

She shut the notebook decisively and threw the pencil on the counter and glared at it. What I need, she thought, is a really good character. Just one good character is all I ask. A man with an angel face, classical features, a firm chin, sensitive mouth. Or some bright, spunky, and above all totally unique heroine unlike anyone ever read or wrote of before.

Maybe even a dog. If she wrote a children’s story she could get away with a dog—

She opened the notebook again, looked at the blank paper, chewed her lip, shut it again. No. Her editor wanted a sci-fi novel, or a steamy bodice-ripper, or a thrilling mystery with a sexy middle-aged detective, or all three, but anything anything anything other than a children’s book. Which settled that, as far as she was concerned.

Perhaps she should get a new publisher.

No.

No.

She could call the dog Patcho, like Pongo from 101 Dalmations. Only— ‘Patcho.’

No.

Yes?

No.

A man then. A good-looking one. Somewhere between Rik Mayall and Johnny Depp (a mighty good place to be) there was the perfect man. Possibly closer to Mayall at thirty minus ten pounds. Possibly not. Most of her friends didn’t like him at all. Several were afraid of him. She didn’t know why she wasn’t.

A gorgeous man. No.

An ordinary man with eyes that lit up like a faithful dogs when he, the dog that is, hears his master coming.

Why is it dogs again?

Blue eyes. No. Overdone.

Grey eyes. Also overdone.

Brown, black, green.

What’s a unique color for eyes?

Mother of pearl. No. Too scary.

Orange. Ditto.

Amethyst. Feminine.

Red. Ew.

She, with a great effort of will, forgot about the eyes for the moment. Nose.

Long. Thin. Crooked. No, straight. No, crooked. And could do with some hair removal.

Sexy man on the way.

Right.

Forget the nose hair. Forget the nose, for that matter.

How about a name. She could call him— Rik. No. Not Rik. She was liable to get sued. Very liable.

Not Johnny, either.

Nor James, John, Peter, Luke, Mark, or David.

This was going well, wasn’t it?

Yes, yes.

Very well.

See? I said I was a terrible liar, and what do you know? I was right. So now that I’ve purged the instinct to start some new half-baked plot that will very quickly go nowhere, and gotten a bit of my infatuation with Rik Mayall down on paper for someone to blackmail me with later, I’ll put this away and try to forget about it. Though its easier said than done.

Blackmayall.

Hmm.