The Part of the Book Where I Can’t Stand Myself

This was me yesterday. Or, rather, a Wikimedia Commons representation of me.

This was me yesterday. Or, rather, a Wikimedia Commons representation of me.

23,000 words into a 50,000 word novella, and I hate the sight of myself right now. I hate that every 1,000 words feels like a sharp headache and I hate that I feel that I’ve run out of ideas. I hate how exhausted I am and I hate that I’m even spending time to write this, instead of that: I’m deflecting and in the process wasting my own time.

But the other, calmer and less interested in searching for reasons to be self-loathing corner of my mind says that blogging, in a lot of ways, is an exercise in performance of its own. Sometimes just by writing out what we’re most afraid of we figure out what our actual problems are.

My fears, in this case, are wrapped in an uncomfortable grasp on the nature of the topics I’m discussing. Surely, writers putting together suspenseful mystery-type crime novellas don’t care as much as I care about factuality, right? People writing about technology and paranoia are speaking only from their experience, which is considerable, and not always interesting in typing in a greater context; I hope. There are lots of stories about people escaping from Venezuela in 1998, once Hugo Chavez seized control. Mine would matter in this context as well, wouldn’t it?

There are people who know the Bible a lot better than I do, despite my hard-earned knowledge obediently nodding to whatever the nun in front of class was asserting, back in catholic school.

There’s no reason to hate anything about my process, I’m just shy of halfway done and I got this far maybe too quickly, by planning and fusing ahead of time, anticipating my problems and writing whole chapters in advance to accommodate for them. My thoughts, as usual, are mad while my book is written in spinal fluid, trapped at the furthest frontal point of my brain, ready to pour out.

Sometimes it does, like a pressurized faucet. And then, now, like dry ketchup in a bottle, it doesn’t and I can’t see the reason why (except that it’s likely that I’m just burnt out and need diversion like this). As Chuck Close probably meant when he said something similar, inspiration is for people looking for an excuse not to work; but writer’s block is somewhat real… if only in that you feel the last thing you put on paper contained finality. Where do you go once the feeling is done? To another project, to distract yourself temporarily? Maybe. Maybe I’ll do that, I definitely have 3 or 4 other things I could do at the moment.

After all, I do set all my own deadlines. Why can’t I adjust them, like shifting a tight budget to delay re-paying one loan for another. It’s not like you don’t still have money coming in, it’s just being re-organized, for optimization.

And in the end the planet, suspended in dangerous and isolated space, survives for another day. With that in mind, there are definitely darker things to worry about than not hitting my outrageous but self-imposed deadlines.

There. Talked myself out of it.