Update #1

This isn't going well.
I came to indianapolis to write the shit out of some stuff, and I have come up with one page.
In three days, I will have been here a week.
My goal was to do Five to Ten pages a day.
My problem is with editing as I go. I read it out loud to myself and pretend that there is someone listening who wants to hear more, but the room is silent.
I have everything I need to make this happen. i have my iced coffee. i have my smokes (that I want to stop smoking, but I am so good at it)
I have the computer, and i have the idea.
But I don't have a way to get to the idea.
Who cares about a guy who is trying to shift the paradigm that society has on God?
I can't have the main guy talk to Odin, because Mr. Gaiman did it already, and I keep coming up with scenarios that seem to come directly out of some notebook that he didn't use for American Gods.
I feel like a hack who is trying to cleverly steal from his favourite author but without the stealing part.
Is everything thought of unoriginal? Has everything been done? Is it all just some spin on the same old song and dance?
What does that mean?
Am I singing?
Am I dancing?
I think i am freaking out, but I'm keeping it all on the inside and putting on a happy face, telling everyone that it's going well and I just need to hit my stride.
Except, i do vent here. There is always this place.
But I want it to work. I do I do.

I know this:
It is a adventure.
It is a story about a guy who talks with god, but god might just be a figment of his imagination, ala Calvin & Hobbes.
Or maybe a Snuffelupagus/Big Bird thing.
But people see Snuffy now. Before, the Big Bird was just crazy.
I am crazy.
I am a bird?
I don't like birds, really. I think they are cool, and former dinosaurs, but Dr. Grant told me that, and he doesn't exist because Michael Crighton is dead now.
Have I passed the point of no return?

I want it to be funny, but what is funny about anything but everything?
Why did that last sentence make total sense to me?

I thought there were rules to these daunting projects, but i am making up new ones as I go. Like I have to blog in order to psych myself up to type just one small paragraph in a thing that maybe no one will read.

yes. I am a Bird. And a Dinosaur. i wish i hadn't left that dino claw that linds bought me in Minneapolis. I should type with it to get into the mind of a dinosaur bird who writes about God.
why am i not capitalizing the 'I's'? Sometimes I am. just then i did. but not just then.
Oh my God, i am not good at any of this and i want a snacky pie. Cherry. A cherry hostess snacky pie.
No. A mountain dew slushie.
yes.

I have to make the internet stop for a while.

I want people to write me letters. Via post.
Please, if you read this, send a letter to me at this address:

5318 Julian Avenue
Indianapolis, IN
46219

Tomorrow will be better. Everybody writes about God on Sunday.
But not the way i do, because I dont write anything. I am not a writer. This is ridiculous and I want to punch Neil Gaiman in the face for inspiring me to want to do something different.

Ok. i never want to do that. I just wish he was here so I could find out what to do next.

More soon.
Stay Awesome.
Snacky Pies are terrible for you. I promise not to eat one, but to always want one.

Andy (or the shell of)