I’m crying right now. Tears are streaming from my eyes, and despite everything I know about the understandings of anger, I am angry, so angry at myself, I could physically damage expensive property. I wanted to state that fact early, because this blog is unplanned, and I’m not sure if you’ll get a happy ending. There are good writing days, and there are bad writing days, but there are dark periods when the majority of days lands in the latter category, and the notion that good writing days exist evaporates entirely from the realm of possibility. It’s like standing in front of a forest, only to realize bulldozers are approaching and you only came equipped with a spoon and a toothpick. Exchange the word forest for pages and pages of time-consuming, mind aching writing, and the word bulldozer with that nagging voice in your head, and your pretty much where I am now.
I’ve tried to identify what causes my inevitable revelation of everything I’ve committed to page, but obviously I haven’t hit it yet. Or, if I have, I haven’t yet conjured a formidable solution to this vile repetition of events. The worse part is, I can see what I’m doing, and in accordance with past experiences, I’ll spend the next few weeks desperately attempting to write a first draft of a first chapter which is never quite good enough, and then, I’ll move on. It’s obvious, but in this cycle, I’ll never get anything done. Frustration doesn’t cover the sensation that rises every time I read through something I’ve written only to discover it just doesn’t work, or it could be remodeled. With the understanding that perfection doesn’t exist, and the argument that first-drafts are supposed to be terrible, I still can’t push past the doubt. I wonder if I stand alone. Stands to reason that with the sheer number of published novels out there, and with so many still aspiring to that goal, somewhere down the line, someone has got to have stood in my shoes; hour after hour staring at words before removing them completely, wondering if they will ever be good enough to finally make their mark in the world of fiction. I just wish I knew one personally who had overcome it so I could get some pointers.
I’m not crying anymore – so this creative outlet must be helping. It is however past eleven o’clock, and I am trying to make a habit of going to bed at eleven (do the math), so I sit here having had two birds taken out by the old proverbial stone. I feel like I should no longer write, but I’ve felt like this before, and I’ll probably feel like it again. I won’t stop writing, I wish I could say it was because I believed deep down that I will someday overcome this wall, but in actually, it’s just a stubbornness I’ve possessed since birth that keeps me driven. That, and ultimately, I do love writing. I’m trying to focus on that, and when I do, the words flow for a time; it’s when I glance back and try to analyze them that the gut-gnawing pain seeps in, and I sink into habits I wish I could break. No more writing tonight, tomorrow … maybe. I’m not sure what the waking hours will bring.
What is uplifting at this moment in time is the knowledge that if I have managed to do it; stumble over this hurdle, and discover the illusion of my limits, and one of my hypothetical audience feels the same as I, perhaps they will read this post with a nod, and a tissue in hand, and they will know that a) it’s not a sensation solitary to them, and b) they can overcome it.
But, I guess I should maybe get there first.