I sit on the floor of my bedroom, staring out the window at the trees in my backyard and pointedly ignoring the overflow of dorm room contents that still need to be organized and put away and thrown out and donated... I stare at the trees and think four years back in time, back to the summer of 2005... once called the Golden Summer of Fanfics. I think back to sitting out on a stump with a notebook and a pen, watching an ant climb up a tree while I wrestled with the phrasing of some paragraph or another... I have the same urge now that I did then. That urge to WRITE, to POST, to nag and be nagged, to completely IMMERSE myself in the strange community of MC… But what to write, what to write? I close my eyes and picture myself climbing the steps of the Muppet Boarding House. It's time to visit the land of my stories. I go into the house, into the family room. Rowlf is at the piano, unable to play, his paws bound in colorful casts. Ah... Say Cheese! He looks up from his casts and gives me a dirty look for leaving the tale to gather dust for so long. Around him, Rizzo paces on the phone with his brothers and sisters who refuse to tend to his sick aunt, and Fozzie practices for a number that doesn't have music anymore, and Clifford shifts his suitcase from one hand to the other and back, and somewhere in there, Kermit and Miss Piggy are casting each other awkward glances. I sigh and wince at the complicated plot, afraid to even try to remember the last scene I tried to write of it. I shake my head and turn to the kitchen. Here waits another story, as evidenced by the repeat appearance of characters I just saw by the piano. Here, Miss Piggy sits at the table, unhealthily thin, her hair limp, her clothes loose. She looks at me, and her empty blue eyes stare, numbly, mechanically assessing whether or not I'm a threat. Amazon? Moi? Kermit sits beside her, nervously watching, waiting to see the pig he knows and loves grow back from this shell of herself that a year in the jungle made her. The other Muppets whisper and encourage her, somehow bouncing back in an instant from the grief of thinking she was dead. I wonder at her progress and wince, afraid to find out whether or not I've figured out how to guide that tale to where it needs to go. I leave the kitchen and slowly march up the stairs. Halfway, I find Robin sitting on the step, with amnesia. I'm surprised to see him. That story never did make it to MC… What is he doing in this house? I pat his head, wonder if he will ever regain his memory, and continue to the second floor. I stop in Kermit's bedroom and see him standing at attention, in uniform, staring out the window. Heart of Gold. I gulp. He's preparing to go overseas again. I know what waits for him there, and I cringe. If only I didn't have this painful obsession with being somewhat accurate in my writing... WHY did I start a story about something so political? But I know why. I know so many reasons why. I wish I'd found a way to deal with my own personal issues that wasn't so... oh... international? Kermit does not flinch as several photo albums tumble to the floor from the open closet. I rush over and look at the open pages, and I feel my heart jump into my throat. Flippersteps. Flippersteps in the Sand, Flippersteps of Dance... What were the other titles? I had six titles, all ready to go... I flip through the photo albums, catching glimpses of so many, many years. So many scenes, painstakingly planned and never written. The making of GMC... hiring Steve... 1990... the boarding house... How Kermit found out Miss Piggy rode a motorcycle... I'm not looking in order. I sigh, flipping to the blank pages where there should be pictures of The Muppet Show, season one. Lousy writer's block. And now, all those years that were supposed to happen in the "future..." have already happened. It was such an intricate story... Elaborate, and heart wrenching... I wince at the mess of dates called the '70s, and the thick dust that covers these albums... Brushing the dust off my legs, I stand up and leave the room, walking down the hallway to Miss Piggy's room. She is standing at the foot of the bed, cradling a baby piglet in a soft yellow blanket. Change of Heart. She looks up from the baby and gives me an annoyed look. Am I EVER going to explain to the readers why she HAS this baby? Kermit fidgets nearby, glancing at Miss Piggy and looking away, again and again, wondering. I sigh and wonder what happens AFTER that explanation. At the end of the hallway, a grandfather clock strikes the hour. Startled, I flinch, look at it… and rub my eyes. It’s only HALF of a grandfather clock. …Well, of COURSE it’s only HALF a clock… I give it a fond smirk. The Time the Muppets Beat Time. Somewhere in that clock, there’s a Light, a feud, a disco, a dozen or so INCREDIBLY powerful but unwritten scenes… and a misplaced kidney with a bite from a halo-bearing mosquito. I shake my head, fold my arms across my chest, and slowly drag my feet back up the hallway towards the stairs. What to do? That itch to write, to post, is SO strong... I open my eyes, and I'm back in my bedroom, staring at the trees out the window again. I look at my computer and tilt my head. I do have OTHER stories... Half-written stories, fragments of stories, never seen by Muppet Central... but then... there are REASONS those stories haven't been seen by Muppet Central. Some... well, some aren't exactly appropriate for a family forum. I smile wryly at the darkest depths of my mind, reflecting for the thousandth time that no one would guess, from LOOKING at me, that I write such— ...But then again, the shirt I'm wearing today is covered with skulls and crossbones, so maybe I don't look as innocent as I think I do. I mentally assess the fragmentary library on my computer. Too dark, too dirty, too incomplete... Gee, this is working out REAL swell. Maybe I should just start a new story. ...Oy. Here we go again.