So I’ve been stuck in Useless Writer Mode the last three weeks or so. I got a sudden urge to reread Books One and Two, do a little editing, make them presentable for public consumption, that sort of thing. A simple little plan.
That has rendered me utterly useless for the duration.
Oh, I look functional. I get stuff done. I go to work, I make dinner, I take showers, I pay bills, all the requisites.
I just don’t do them willingly.
Because inside, I’m just jonesing to get back to the stories, back to my characters, back to that dream sequence that may be a little too long, back to that scene where I want to switch the first two paragraphs, back to Page 123 where I need to take out the word “the.”
Yes, it’s that bad.
Of course, when I’m actually working with the characters, it’s heaven. We are literally on the same page and, if we aren’t, a tweak here and there puts us back in sync. All the little flaws jump right out at me. Take a word out here. Add a sentence there. Better, much better.
Damn it. I need to go do something else. Okay, okay. Just until the end of the chapter then. Because I want to see if that last scene works. And then I can go.
And life sort of goes on and I sort of go with it, but in a vague sleepwalker sort of way. Because no matter what else I’m doing, my mind is still working on ways to clean up the end of Chapter 7.
Years ago, after my mom died, I went to see a therapist for a while. And I remember one session where I just sat on the couch and cried. “I don’t want to be a writer. I want to be a normal person.”
And Dr. C would say, “But you are a writer.”
“But people don’t have to be writers, right?”
“What do you think about when you’re driving on the freeway?”
“My characters tell me stories.”
“But don’t you see how wonderful that is? Most people have to settle for working on their grocery lists.”
I never did see the wonderful. And I spent a great deal of time trying not to be a writer (of course, writing all the time I was supposedly not doing it). I was supposed to keep a journal, but that never happened.
Because it’s not my life that I write about.
Shoot. Now I’m late for work.
Maybe Drac can write me a note.