Too much pressure. I’m baking under the lights. I need to get out, do something, pretend to be someone, anyone i.e. not me. A puffy weight sits on my shoulder and leaks down over me, pouring like viscous oil with a metallic aftertaste. A puddle forms at my toes and I curl a fist with my toes to feel the oil coat the webs between them. My head feels lighter as if it longs to leave my neck and float away. So be it in this state.
I dodged, hemmed, and hiccupped my way to not writing. I accepted begrudged, and denigrated my efforts, screaming late at night as my head exploded & I vowed never to do this again. Even now, as the yummy caffeine begins its course through my vulnerable veins, I feel the listlessness of writing this commentary about my writing process, as if, like a critic who knows he has a story within him if only he could stop writing about the works of others, I only have the energy to create this dialogue off the efforts of others, falling off at the end of it only when the chocolate remnants in my mug holds up its arms to surrender to my latest attempt.
I’ve suffered through almost two weeks of headaches with few days off for good behavior. Today was the latest day off, and I’ve tried to make the best of it. I consternated, but I also thought (after overloading myself with caffeine) & wrote, and I hope some of these thoughts and writings will propel my latest (stagnant) story to first draft-ness. I won’t make the connection between Doolies’ visit and the headaches—although, it is rather fishy. Perhaps I’m allergic to her or to her constant poking me in the ribs at night; I’m almost convinced that’s what she’s doing in the wee hours of the darkness, an attempt, I’m sure to ruin my sleep and cause the pathologic yawning that I’ve suffered along with the headaches. Don’t tell her this because she’ll deny it up and down the halls.
Floodgates, the loose thoughts: I write words without query or understanding. Where are the layers? Ditto on the ruins & triumphs. So much written & said; almost of all of it useless and uninteresting. What makes mine different or worthy of the wasted time and aggravating aggrandizing? What to bring? What to say (except for the excuse to say anything). The voices swallowed and writhed before the third-grade essay.
Progress keeps running up the hill, speeding its way in the useless directions I keep spawning.
I’m still plodding away on my story, most days bad, but a few (like today) good. I still hope to finish it. And after I rewrite the second draft, I’ll post what remains (if anything).