We’ve been out of town. I brought a notebook to scribble in and that happened, some scribbling. You’re not supposed to fall out of practice as a writer. Consistency is your ally and friend, but it has honestly been a struggle to sit still and do the work.
The reasons vary. Sometimes the idea accumulates the heft of the BIG IDEA. You know the one. It’s going to change the world. Surely you’ve had one or two that have gotten so beefy with intention that they never get completed. I’m a couple of thousand words into one like that. I am currently stuck because I need to express a style of architecture with extreme precision because I’m describing a real place. See I want you to know it’s the place I’m saying it is, I just don’t want to use the real name of the place.
I guess it’s perfectionism. No. That’s incorrect. It’s actually imperfectionism. You see I read where I was at and I couldn’t find the heart of the scene I was in. The scene is actually all a jumble and repetitive but there’s a cornel of something there that I need to extract but it’s under all that detritus you see and having to work through all that imperfection FUCK the sight of the words on the screen just exhausted me and I can’t help but wonder what have I done.
Goddammit I’m ridiculous. How can I possibly be getting an Master’s in Creative Writing when I can’t even sit down to write? Why do I keep doing this to myself? It has been years YEARS. Why?
Because I have no Plan B. Once I believed I was good at this. Maybe tomorrow I’ll believe that again.
This has been August 13, 2014.