Hi, wall. I knew you were coming at some point. Could you just fuck right off though? I’ve got shit to do.
I’ve hit the wall. It’s 10 am and the system is breaking down. I have been taking a few chapters every day and trying to make them into chapters. The “just keep writing” mantra I’ve been using for the past three years is awesome. It got me where I am today, by which I mean sitting on top of a hot stinking mess of a manuscript.
Repeat after me: a crap manuscript is better than no manuscript at all.
But now it’s time to shape and massage. Plastic surgery and open heart surgery. Cutting, pasting, cutting, pasting. I’ve sorted out my first group of chapters. They’re not perfect, but they are possibly heading in the right direction.
But now I’m in the wilderness. I can’t stop and figure out the parts that need to be expanded or cut. My editorial eye is off. What if I skip these three chapters, which have a bit of shape, and go onto the next thing?
Nope. I’m in shark-infested waters. The next few “chapters” are not even remotely chapterlike. This sucks. I hate writing.
I’m going to go back to drinking until midnight. I’m going to watch the entire seventh season of West Wing right now. I’m going to go out and buy DP a t-shirt. I’m going to throw myself in front of a sightseeing bus. I’m going to waste this beautiful time. Fuck.
What’s your sledgehammer?