Yesterday was rough on the writing front. I'm pushing the cold, slick gristle of the "novel" draft around the plate and hate it. Oh, do I hate it. I'm closing in on the second pass of the story's conclusion and it feels like I'm rushing things, like I've just sobered up whilst having beery sex and realized I'm in the sack with a Bush twin who's off her meds, my condom's snapped, and Poppy is pounding at the door. Sort of. I just want this done, man. Done. Why? Why did I think I could walk with giants? Sometimes you hang your head and feel like such a fraud. Meanwhile, a new project with real gams nips at my heels, a challenge that is so daunting so loaded with danger I go back and forth between both tasks gulping for air. Christ, what have I done? Just feels like drowning some days and I know all about that because it really did almost happen to me thrice--once in the waters off NJ and twice in Hawaii (two different islands) because I didn't think things through. Yeah, no one said this writing thing was easy. Takes slop buckets of courage. I raised my head from the laptop in the library (they crank the a.c. in the summer and it's a good place to grind) and trolled the shelves for a break. All these people. They did it, so why can't I? Goddamn it made me angry. And anger is good, I think. A few hours later after I put the kids to bed with stories about the magic meadow and a gnome named Gerry--HA!-- the universe chimed in. Almost asleep I hit the remote and one of the greatest underdog films of all time is on: Z U L U . Yeah I may be reading into things, but it's my life and I will do whatever the hell I want. And I want better from myself.
7/28/09
Living Under the Sign
Yesterday was rough on the writing front. I'm pushing the cold, slick gristle of the "novel" draft around the plate and hate it. Oh, do I hate it. I'm closing in on the second pass of the story's conclusion and it feels like I'm rushing things, like I've just sobered up whilst having beery sex and realized I'm in the sack with a Bush twin who's off her meds, my condom's snapped, and Poppy is pounding at the door. Sort of. I just want this done, man. Done. Why? Why did I think I could walk with giants? Sometimes you hang your head and feel like such a fraud. Meanwhile, a new project with real gams nips at my heels, a challenge that is so daunting so loaded with danger I go back and forth between both tasks gulping for air. Christ, what have I done? Just feels like drowning some days and I know all about that because it really did almost happen to me thrice--once in the waters off NJ and twice in Hawaii (two different islands) because I didn't think things through. Yeah, no one said this writing thing was easy. Takes slop buckets of courage. I raised my head from the laptop in the library (they crank the a.c. in the summer and it's a good place to grind) and trolled the shelves for a break. All these people. They did it, so why can't I? Goddamn it made me angry. And anger is good, I think. A few hours later after I put the kids to bed with stories about the magic meadow and a gnome named Gerry--HA!-- the universe chimed in. Almost asleep I hit the remote and one of the greatest underdog films of all time is on: Z U L U . Yeah I may be reading into things, but it's my life and I will do whatever the hell I want. And I want better from myself.