Maybe it's the weather. My imagination froze over this week.
After hours of sitting around, considering the problem -- try a new antidepressant? not enough sunshine? too much reading? too little? the wrong sort? -- I laced up my skates and slid onto the pond.
Meaning: I set the kitchen timer for 45 minutes. I sat down before my work. I told myself:
Yes, you suck, but you will write anyway, in and through and with your insufficiency, your failures of will, your dissatisfaction, your wish for cheap succor, for cigarettes and scotch.
Immediately, I was interrupted. I growled and put on my noise-canceling earphones. I pushed on.
And then I was in it. And I was doing it. And the terror and the silence and the solitude became too much and I went over to Facebook and tortured myself in the various ways that one can torture oneself on social networking sites. (Don't ask, okay? Just don't ask.)
I hate and fear this novel.
This is a good sign.
I'm getting more coffee. I'm gonna reset the timer. I'm going back in.
