Whine, whine, bitch and moan, or something like that. Dig that metaphor over to the left there.
I've discovered that I don't do well with obligation. When I was a kid, knowing I was supposed to say "thank you" for something sometimes created a peculiar pressure in my head, and tied my tongue. I was an impolite child.
Which is inconvenient, because life is full of obligations. Some are chosen, and others are thrust upon us. There's an intricate psychological latticework underpinning my discomfort with this ubiquity, which I can describe in a pithy phrase or two. I won't do that here, because it's rather boring. I consider it a personality flaw, and my strategy until now has been to mostly avoid situations that require obligation.
Which, by way of corollary, means that I've not risked much during my life. I've done risky things, by any objective measure. But nothing that's involved the the same quality of risk as the task that I've set out for myself here.
As I've mentioned, writing is something I'm good at, and that's been true for as along as I can remember. This notion is intrinsic to my identity. And now I'm saying to myself, Really? Let's see what you've got.
That scares the hell out of me.
It's not the time limit I've set. Anybody who knows anything about the publishing business will tell you that the idea of going from manuscript to publishing contract in a year is naïve at best. It's not a question of getting it done in a year. It's not the prospect of perhaps never getting it done at all. It's not even the idea that I might get this manuscript done and fail to arouse anyone's interest with it. It's a simple fear, really: I'll finish this one, and not sell it. I'll finish the next one, and not sell that one. And at some point, I'll have to conclude that this talent, this one thing I'm good at...is illusory.
I know a fair number of aspiring writers who have unpublished novels, or who are in the process of writing unpublished novels, who've told me "It's enough to have finished the manuscript. Publishing it isn't important."
Well...bullshit. I'm not saying that just writing the thing won't have a certain pedagogical benefit, but I'm not going to devalue the goal to soften the potential blow of failing to reach it.
This past weekend was two days' worth of the habitual, leaden inertia that I need to quickly overcome if this project going to be anything other than an exercise in bitching and moaning. I am obligated to myself at this point, a situation which--given the aforementioned latticework--is ripe for all sorts of negative feedback loops. Part of what I'll be describing here on these pages is the process of avoiding that...how I heave my bulk off of the beach, refloat, and set sail.
Assuming, of course, that I manage to do that.
I've discovered that I don't do well with obligation. When I was a kid, knowing I was supposed to say "thank you" for something sometimes created a peculiar pressure in my head, and tied my tongue. I was an impolite child.
Which is inconvenient, because life is full of obligations. Some are chosen, and others are thrust upon us. There's an intricate psychological latticework underpinning my discomfort with this ubiquity, which I can describe in a pithy phrase or two. I won't do that here, because it's rather boring. I consider it a personality flaw, and my strategy until now has been to mostly avoid situations that require obligation.
Which, by way of corollary, means that I've not risked much during my life. I've done risky things, by any objective measure. But nothing that's involved the the same quality of risk as the task that I've set out for myself here.
As I've mentioned, writing is something I'm good at, and that's been true for as along as I can remember. This notion is intrinsic to my identity. And now I'm saying to myself, Really? Let's see what you've got.
That scares the hell out of me.
It's not the time limit I've set. Anybody who knows anything about the publishing business will tell you that the idea of going from manuscript to publishing contract in a year is naïve at best. It's not a question of getting it done in a year. It's not the prospect of perhaps never getting it done at all. It's not even the idea that I might get this manuscript done and fail to arouse anyone's interest with it. It's a simple fear, really: I'll finish this one, and not sell it. I'll finish the next one, and not sell that one. And at some point, I'll have to conclude that this talent, this one thing I'm good at...is illusory.
I know a fair number of aspiring writers who have unpublished novels, or who are in the process of writing unpublished novels, who've told me "It's enough to have finished the manuscript. Publishing it isn't important."
Well...bullshit. I'm not saying that just writing the thing won't have a certain pedagogical benefit, but I'm not going to devalue the goal to soften the potential blow of failing to reach it.
This past weekend was two days' worth of the habitual, leaden inertia that I need to quickly overcome if this project going to be anything other than an exercise in bitching and moaning. I am obligated to myself at this point, a situation which--given the aforementioned latticework--is ripe for all sorts of negative feedback loops. Part of what I'll be describing here on these pages is the process of avoiding that...how I heave my bulk off of the beach, refloat, and set sail.
Assuming, of course, that I manage to do that.
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