Hell, or Something Like It

Art Relecting Art, Reflecting on Art

Art Relecting Art, Reflecting on Art (Photo credit: cobalt123)

I am failing miserably at NaNo. This is my first year and that struggle to silence the inner editor and critic are not that easy. I have also screwed up royally in one huge regard — telling no one I know personally that I was doing it! I knew this was a mistake, but I was telling myself this was some kind of trial run and/or I just hadn’t gotten around to telling anyone yet. I suspect that I intentionally made this monumental mistake to never have to own up to not taking it seriously enough; I’d be free to utterly neglect it and fail in my own private misery.

I also suffer from a neurotic need to write something different/experimental in some way, but to refuse to accept that the writing process would be much more messy and involved because of this choice.

It’s really giving me the idea that I hate myself deeply in some way, and that some part of myself revels in misery and failure. I’m starting to wonder if many writers in the past so famously struggled with drugs or alcohol as a way to rectify their need for self abuse, so it wouldn’t effect their work as directly. ( This is only half sarcastic.)

So where does this leave me? More than halfway through with 5k less than what I should have written. I am feeling baseless frustration with others’ demands of my time, baseless because they are normal expectations and they have no idea I am trying to do anything outside of my normal things. I have neglected to do anything related to Abject Books in far too long, or nearly enough with other professional pursuits.  It’s November 16th and I have 20,000 words written with no actual plot yet. Some kind of main character seems to be narrating, for some reason — I have no idea when, why, to whom, or in reference to what. I have written NO DIALOGUE. In fact, nothing has actually happened yet.

All I seem to be doing is writing bit after bit of descriptions of places, feelings, people. They are, as of yet, totally unconnected by anything other than the narrator. I’m not even doing very well keeping the voice of the narrator consistent. There is no book in my book. Even my title is just me taking a jab at my insufficient progress and complete lack of a concept.


I feel locked in some kind of hideous struggle with my narrator, not with anything like Good and Evil, but rather over if Good and Evil exist or not. This was not my intention whatsoever. I just wanted to write a damned novel. This is just so typically me. I do freelance projects for other people — It’s my work, it goes fine, I’m about as attached or proud of it as a convenience store clerk is concerned with Twinkies  I write something of my own accord, largely for myself, and the whole thing becomes some kind of deeply troubling personal turmoil.

I don’t even think you could read this horrible thing as a produced piece of writing. If there is any meaning to it in its own merit, it would have to be culled out in some half analytic,  half intuitive way — like Freudian psychotherapy. I feel like I’m on a couch somewhere being asked how my relationship with being and meaning has been going lately.

Oy Vey.

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