Stuck in a black hole with my lack of creativity, my hopeless prose, the dialogue which is heavy and sickly, and oh my god my back hurts.
Bad, bad ju-ju. Writer’s clog.
Me and this manuscript, that’s all there is, and I can’t seem to forge any life out of it. Three hundred words takes days. Days! How long was that? An hour… I think I’ll blame the barometer. My diet. My oddball lovelife. My room, which, frankly, is disappearing under the laundry I haven’t done yet, cus I just need 2,000 more words.
What the fuck am I doing. I can’t write. I just can’t write a novel. I think I’m going to write a crap-pile. The characters don’t even like me anymore. They want Thanksgiving off. They’re unreasonable. They keep fighting. Conflict is good they say, but they’re biting their nails. “Do I really hafta do it this way?”
“No, your way is fine.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Okay, do it this way. 2,000 more words.”
“You suck.” I’m in agreement here. 3300 words nearly killed me. Nobody’s out there. And it’s a dark and stormy night.
It was a dark and stormy night…. I kinda like that.
It’s been done.