I am in a funk right now when it comes to writing. I think some of it is exhaustion, and some of it is boredom. I’ve been working on this thing too long. I’ve lost the ability to hold it all in my head, and I can barely understand what I’m working on. I want to be done more for the sake of not feeling this story and the need to finish it hanging like a millstone about my neck than because I am excited to read it back. When I try to picture a scene that I’m writing, nothing comes. I write anyway, and it’s like tagging gaffiti in the dark, and sometimes it is leavable and sometimes I have to paint right over it. You know how when you’ve been up for 20 hours determined to finish something, but you hit that point where you’re so tired it’s almost counterproductive to keep working, and it will take you three times the time as a task would if you were fresh? I think that’s where I’m at with this one. I just need it done.
At this point novel-writing is an exercise in stubborness more than it is a pleasure or an investment in something I think might pay me a reward. I’ve just…come this far. I can’t quit now. But god damn I’m tired.
That is all. Time to go erase the 500 words I just spent all afternoon dragging from my brain like splinters, because they are just not right….