WRITING
A NOVEL: START TO FINISH, ENTRY FOURTEEN
LOVE,
PORN, AND BASEBALL
In re
to the last entry, I really want to believe I’m good enough to be great. Great at writing. But it's truly hard to convince myself of that
when the writing isn’t, well, being written.
Last Sunday, when I get the lion’s share of writing done, was Mother’s
Day. I shifted it to Monday. Monday arrived and I didn’t do it. I can’t tell you what I even did. So it must’ve been worth it. I’m at a point in TUG where the real work
begins. The first 10,000 words were like
the first few days of dating someone new, those days where you get that
fluttering in your chest and everything between you and her is possible. Bills due don’t matter, the clunking in your
car is nothing, the ex-wife really isn’t all that bad after all… But then reality hits. Those little flaws in someone’s character or
your own surface and start to play tricks of doubt upon your once departed
brain. The heart isn’t enough to carry
thing alone. The door is parted allowing
the light of hard, cold logic to cast upon the floor and promising of
unknowns. Will things work out as once
known?
It’s
funny and pissy that writing a novel can play with your emotions and
confidence. It’s become work. And no one who is being honest enjoys
working. Unless you’re a porn star
maybe. Even that gets old I’d assume
though. I don’t want to be that porn
star. Well, actually it may be nice to
get that experience. But on screen it
ain’t going to happen. Instead, I must
make it happen on paper—or screen.
Screen first, then paper—hopefully—later. Which brings me to the point of why I’m not
writing today.
This
evening I do that other portion or writing work that no one enjoys. Gee, why don’t I strain my confidence and
create a unique cover letter for each prospective publisher or agent, then send
it off, wait for months, then get a form rejection letter. Unfortunately, I need to operate within this
business model. After all, I did choose
to write these two other novels to be read by someone other than me. But here’s another reason I’ve been avoiding
it: Do I really want my confidence to
take all these hits as I’m creating something new? It’s the equivalent of a man thinking of
baseball to last longer—except it’s completely different? Thinking of baseball will numb the senses,
prolong something pleasant. Getting
rejection has no positive benefits, but it does numb the creative process. And the fun, the ecstasy is in the creating—when
you get off your lazy ass and do it that is.
So
to sum up, writing is, at first, like falling in love. Then it becomes a relationship, rife with all
its potential pitfalls, and logic guidance—work. Then you wish you were a porn star. Then you decide to think of baseball. Now, doesn’t that make a lot of sense? I will write tomorrow. After work I work again. There will be no cameras or boom mikes or
lubricant. Just me and coffee and
currently intact confidence and ideas.
