I’m having one of those mornings when I’m having trouble getting started writing and I don’t know why. I mean, it is not a block as I know what the upcoming scenes are; heck I know what the whole scope of the novel is. It’s not initial novel hesitation as I’m well into halfway through.
There is some doubt I know of the story coming out like I want it to. It is a more complicated and darker story than I’ve written before; I’m conscious of having the right tone. But I also know that if I just start writing the creativity will take care of itself. Words build upon words just as thoughts build upon thoughts.
Yet here instead of doing what I love doing, what I should be doing, what I will feel like a failure all day if I don’t spend at least some time doing, I instead start thinking about: Did I register for paperless billing with account X? How should my Internet toolbar be setup? Do I have holds to pick up at the library?
This and many other things that are important, yes, to one degree or another, but nothing that can’t wait. Meanwhile, forget the tick-tock of the passing clock. I’m more concerned about the wasted thump-thumps of my heart that will eventually cease beating while all around the clocks still keep time for someone else.
Maybe it’s a form of self-sabotage. Mental suicide with a dull knife of inflicted tedium. A melancholic feeling of inferiority that becomes self-fulfilling. I know the current novel could be great… so maybe it’s just the plain old fear — that never really goes away — that I lack the means to make it so.
After I post this, I’m going to try, try again to write those pages that I should have already written today.
What else is there besides trying…
except for maybe dying?