I have an earth-shattering revelation for you: in order to be a writer, you actually have to write. Apply pen to paper. Fingers to keyboard, etc, etc.

In light of this epiphany, I informed my family that I was going to start writing my Great American Novel today. They all smiled and said things like “That’s nice, dear,” the way you do to small children and people that you think might be a little bit insane.

I asked what they thought I should write about, and Will suggested vampires. Because vampires are always bestsellers even if the book sucks.

The rest of us tried to ignore the bad pun, and moved on to other suggestions. I tried to suggest writing about a wizard who goes to school, and then goes on a quest with elves and dwarves and other creatures.

Shockingly, it seems that those ideas might have already been done.

Zombies? Aliens? Zombies who ARE aliens? Aliens who turn humans in to zombies?

Then Mark got the cake out and we all forgot about stories.

Mark had to head out to the farm to do some discing for awhile, and I was hit with another epiphany: I should write about a farmer. Who…drives back and forth in a field? Hmmm. Maybe not, that might be kind of boring. Until the suggestion was made that the farmer had to defend his farm from aliens, who wanted turn the farmer and his family into zombies.

I think I’ll just go back to my own notebook of ideas instead of relying on my men.