It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write. I’ve forgotten how to put that sentence down, that first sentence that has promise and that gives me a glimmer of faith that better sentences will follow. I don’t remember where to begin, or what to do when my ideas lag. I haven’t worked on The Fucker for weeks.
I had nothing to write about, so I hit the books, and read up on [field redacted]. Each question lead me in a new direction. I tried to understand a thousand things and I failed. But I know a lot more now, and it’s time to get back to the page.
I printed out the first chapter I needed to radically change. Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room (which apparently is an excellent location for editing, who knew?), I realized that the chapter was not just boring, but hideously boring. OK. That’s not good news, but at least it’s something to work with, a place to start.
It’s like Vivian Gornick said. There is the situation and the story. I know what the situation is, it is time to tell the story.
What’s your situation? What’s your story? Are you writing?
(PS This post is dedicated to my grandmother. It was her wedding anniversary today. She wanted to be a journalist, but her husband wouldn’t let her work. I think she was happy, though, and she encouraged her youngest granddaughter to write. She was the very nicest member of the Clause family.)