Saturday, September 20, 2003
Not often I write two entries in a single day. But I am today, in hopes that it assauges a little of the guilt I'm feeling at the moment.
I tried to begin Chapter Nine, and hit a brick wall. I wrote the beginning of a scene. Then ditched it. I wrote the beginning of another scene. And then ditched it. Bill Scahfer called, because I asked him to, to discuss the status of various projects, and I asked him to please call back later (don't hate me, Cat Daddy). I stared at the screen. I stared at the screen. I drank absinthe. I stared at the frelling screen some more. And finally, about 4:30, I gave up. My head hurt and I was hopelessly lost in the doubt that hangs at the nether regions of Murder of Angels. I took a hot bath and felt sorry for myself. I don't have a lot of time to waste with silliness like today. In fact, I don't have any time to waste with silliness like today. I have, essentially, ten days to get this last chapter written before I need to begin getting ready for the trip to New England, but, at the same time, I know I can't rush this. This book is precious to me, as are all my books, and if I rush the ending I'll hate myself forever.
Or so long as my consciousness survives.
So, here I am. Uncertain what comes next. Or afraid that what comes next will make me happy and everyone else will hate it. Or only the critics will hate it. Or whatever.
I think being unable to write, when writing is what you do, must be a bit like sexual impotence, though I wouldn't know from experience. But it feels like I imagine that would feel. It's a horrible, infuriating feeling.
I have Blake and Milton and Yeats stacked on my desk. You'd think these guys could help.
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