Writing is hard today. Don’t know why. I’m sitting in the lobby of my Starbucks, freezing under the unnecessary air conditioning, and staring at the blank screen of chapter 11.
Chapters 9 and 10 were so good. And really came quite easily. Now I have to fight for 11.
It doesn’t help that my brain is clogged with other things.
I started playing Defiance, and it’s awesome. So of course it’s almost all I can think about. If I could, I would play 24 hours a day, that’s how much I enjoy it.
Also, I had a new story idea and it has me really excited, but I don’t want to even touch it until the rough draft of Vessels is finished. Which is really hard to do.
Add to it that I’ll have been at work for about 12 hours today, and somehow didn’t manage to drink any coffee, and I’m mentally zapped.
So, basically, Vessels has been ignored this last week. Except for when I shower. For some reason I always think about my stories when I’m in the shower.
Even now, as I write this post, I’m really just avoiding chapter 11. I tell myself that I’m just using the blog to work out my problems with the chapter, but so far that’s not really happening.
Maybe it needs to marinate? I don’t know. I have flashes of moments from the chapter, and they’re good. Exciting. I should want to write them.
But, once I actually sit down and rest my fingers on the black keys of my MacBook, nothing happens.
I think I’m nervous. What if 11 doesn’t stack up? 9 and 10 have set the standard, and I’m terrified that 11 is going to suck.
How dumb is that?
Another method of ignoring this chapter has come in the form of editing the Vessels playlist on my ipod. This is the music I listen to while writing the novel. it includes the collective genius of Muse, 30 Seconds to Mars, Incubus, Cage the Elephant, The Civil Wars, Jeff Buckley, The Lumineers, Soundgarden, and Placebo.
It’s an odd playlist, but most of the songs make sense for the novel, either through the lyrics or the actual sound or tone of the song.
Anyway, this post has taken the better part of two hours to write, and as the evening persists, my mood steadily drops. I can’t write tonight, it would seem. I can’t focus. I can only scribble in purple ink the tenuous ramblings of my broken mind.
Impotence. That’s the feeling.