Sad writer. No cookie.
So, as you can tell, I’m doing the final revise on Redemption Alley before it goes to the editor and my agent. Which means:
* I am so sick of this book I wish I could throw my laptop across the room, but I can’t because I paid good money for the laptop and it doesn’t deserve, faithful workhorse that it is, to be tossed at the opposite wall because I’m mad at myself for not writing this book as well as I cold have.
* I am at that stage of the book writing where every negative voice in the writer’s head screams you are so full of trash, you shouldn’t be writing, who the hell do you think you are? Curse you! Cue terrible self-doubt and gigantic sucking depression. Work the only cure.
* I really, really, want to be doing something else. Like going and seeing a movie. I hear Into the Wild is out in theaters again, and I found Jon Krakauer’s book about McCandless extraordinarily moving, especially since that yearning–the urge to head off into the sunset–is something I understand.* (Krakauer’s one of my automatic buys as an investigative journalist/writer, his Under the Banner of Heaven was bloody fascinating.)
* Chocolate. I’ve got half a bar of Truffle Pig and I don’t think it’s going to survive.
One of the things about being a writer is that feeling of huh, I’ve been here before when one gets to a particular stage of the writing process, especially the depression of revisions. It doesn’t get easier, but at least one recognizes the landmarks.
*Note: Yearning, not any preparation to actually do. As much as I might yearn for Life On The Road, I’ve seen enough of it that I know it’s not for me. Too much cruelty, not enough safety, and far, far too hard on Little People. Maybe I’ll travel when I’m older (i.e., when the Little People are older) but until then, I have Kerouac and the track when the urge strikes me. Besides…Into the Wild is a tragedy. McCandless’s feeling of disconnection is so, so sad.
*is thoughtful and silent*
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