...Mark David Chapman did. But, there is a website that says he did. They even have a little book proving all their, um, cough, *theory*, cough. I post the link because I find it humorous and rediculous. I think you might, too. These people even have a van with their website painted on the side. That's how I found out about them, in New York City, on John Lennon's birthday, headed to Strawberry Fields with my other soulmates. It is the most amusing thing I've come across. And sad that they can make money on something so tragic. Society. Ahhh, gulible society, supporting this lunatic.
Anyway, Stephen King did not kill John. He saved my life. Again.
I have all these things to say. I know there is a novel in me. Somewhere. Deep, deep inside. It needs to come out. I need to write. But I can never seem to get past 5000 words. And that is not a novel. It is not even a novella. And, by definition, it isn't even a short story. I'm just writing really long, fictional journal entries.
I have this picture in my head about this breath spray from when I was little. It was a green and white canister. How can I make that a story? It's just breath spray...
But my mind will not let it go. On Saturday, I put Stephen King's On Writing on the ipod in my car. I always listen to this when I need to get the ball rolling. I listened to it until the very end, last night on the way home from work.
While listening, I got a couple plot ideas. I have written them down and am working on streaming them together. I don't know if this will be my novel or another short story, but it is something.
And it all started with a one ounce green and white can of breath spray from the early 1980s. It's weird what the mind remembers...
...and how some small, seemingly insignificant item from childhood can become a story, if I let it.
p.s. For those of you who haven't yet checked it out, I started a new blog for my cooking adventures. Please check it out, comment, and follow. Thanks!