Tonight I went to the gym with my husband. This was disastrous for a few reasons:
- I got the mother of all nosebleeds while we sat at a traffic light down the street from our house and spent the first ten minutes of my workout time in the parking lot trying to staunch the blood with a towel we found in the back seat;
- By the time I actually got up to the 3rd floor track, I felt like I’d run – and this is just an estimate – 385 miles, and I didn’t want to do anything other than curl up on the couch with a huge bowl of ice cream and watch Arrested Development until I fell asleep;
- But I decided to walk for a little while anyway, which backfired because: A) I worked out yesterday and my thigh muscles are still angry about it and B) Apparently my imagination has been trained a little too well, because whenever I get too much alone time, I start to worry in very creative ways. So;
- After about five minutes of walking, I had imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios involving every possible illness, tragedy, and bereavement that could ever befall my family and – wait for it – I STARTED CRYING AS I WALKED AROUND THE TRACK.
- Ugly crying. The kind where your mouth pulls down at the corners and makes your whole face contort in grotesque ways. Which resulted in:
- Most of my workout time was actually spent in the bathroom, crying my eyes out like a high school girl on a bad prom date.
Everything’s okay now though, because my husband made me dinner when we got home. And then he put Arrested Development on. After he made me tell him why I was crying, though, which made me cry even more. But then I felt way better afterwards.
(In a related story, pregnancy has made me a complete nutjob.)
For all three of you who are still reading, here’s the actual point of this post: All that worrying I did on the track? Gave me a FREAKING AWESOME idea for a book.
The only problem is, I do NOT want to write it.
The story I came up with during my cry-fest at the gym is so moving – so emotional and touching – that I just can’t face actually writing it.
It’s sad, y’all. I mean, it is like The Time Traveler’s Wife sad. No, worse than that – it’s The Lovely Bones sad. It’s such a tragic idea, I would have to just take one week – one tear-soaked, go-through-ten-boxes-of-Kleenex week – and write the whole thing in one go. Otherwise I would be too depressed for too long and things would just spiral downhill.
Has this ever happened to you? Ever thought of a story that you know a lot of people would want to read, but that you’re not sure you could actually write?
Also – don’t forget to check out the AKA Flash Fiction Contest I’m co-hosting all month!