Ah, oh it’s been days, weeks, probably not months, but it feels like it, since I’ve written on my blog here. I’ve been writing away furiously on the novel. Ach, I realize this makes it sound as if I’ve completed loads of it, but this would not be true. I’ve struggled. The bulk of my struggle comes from getting caught in the middle of worrying about how a book should be rather than just writing it. I’ve written quite a lot that I realized came from what I think is necessary and not from what I want to say, and so I go back and delete it all, oftentimes after working on it for days at a time. I am struggling against writing what I think should be and what I want to be. I am always so much more pleased with what I want than what should be. It’s a struggle. Yes, I know I’ve said that.
I have realized that reading books and articles about how to get published is the worst way for me specifically to get published. I cannot write as I should; I must write as I need to. There is a difference. It is quite difficult also to deal with distractions. Since sitting here I have wanted to respond to an email I was waiting to respond to until I was on a proper keyboard and not on a miniature screen typing with my finger. I also thought to check facebook, but honestly, I’ve about reached my limit with facebook. I can’t pick it up (and it is usually picking it up because 90% of my access is via my mobile device) without reading further about how damned we are as a species and the destruction we wreak on this planet and feeling such an overwhelming sense of powerlessness that I cannot stand it. I don’t want to pick up and read about things I cannot change. It frustrates me to no end. I do feel the desire and need to be informed, but mostly I’m simply overwhelmed by the awfulness of it all, and my powerlessness to change any of it.
Anyway. Yes, anyway can be quite a good transitional word.
I’m quite adept at spitting out these flippant discourses on nothing much. I can sit here and type and type away without much thought and mostly the sentences are complete and require little or no revising. I am rarely so proficient in my fiction. I will write and write, then go back and labor and labor. This too is an exercise in frustration. I wonder most of the time if I should just quit, what I do it for, blah, blah. Why do I do it, anyway? I can’t answer that. Most days I have an urge to write when I’m working or driving the car and cannot. The urge is a part of who I am. I live with it. Sometimes I am able to gratify myself in this regard, but most times not.
I’m tired. I’m going to bed.