my perpetual boner. . .

Lordy lord, have mercy. Once again, I find myself at an impasse relative to EFFIN’ ALBERT. This novel, this crazy-ass novel of mine has proven to be quite the challenge. Fighting me at every conceivable turn. I write, edit, stop writing because I have no effing idea what to write next, sleep, weep, go for a ride. . .

Then I somehow get inspired and write another chapter (two, if I’m lucky), and reach an impasse, and lather, rinse, repeat. . .

I started EFFIN’ ALBERT on a dare I made to myself, back in November of last year. NaNoWriMo, they call it. I dared myself to participate, having no clue what I was getting myself into. That didn’t stop me. November 1, 2012 I sat down and quickly got stuck. And soon became frustrated and angry at myself, realizing that writing a novel in one month was a ridiculous goal. Reach 50K words? I got stuck at 2K. Needless to say, I didn’t make it. Not by a long shot.

But as November drew to a close, I realized I might have something worth pursuing. Maybe. And so I soldiered on, in fits and starts, and ALBERT–such that it was–began to take shape despite my most ardouous efforts to the contrary. 

And I began to get just a wee bit hopeful. A wee bit excited.

What a fool I was, my God, EFFIN’ ALBERT is Chinese Water Torture.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Sometimes those drips are tantalizing passages arbitrarily evaporating into nothing. Other times, they’re the points in-between, stretches where nothing happens, nothing flows and I find myself wishing those flaccid moments would string themselves together, convince me that my story has officially gone soft, petered out, faded away. Then, at least, I could cut my losses and move on. Work on trying to sell CHERRY. Spend my days over at AbsoluteWrite, critting and honing my craft. Beta reading for people. Watching TV. Reading. Taking long, dreamless naps.

Instead, I’m saddled with a perpetual boner of a novel that refuses to provide me with even a modicum of release, except on its own terms. When I want the thing to move forward, it digs in. Refuses to budge. Then, unexpectedly, it looks like something’s gonna actually *happen*–serious action going on, serious writing and I’m a woman possessed, humping that keyboard, so close. . .

And then . . . nothing. The creative bubble bursts as if pricked by a pin and I realize, again, that my damn novel is fucking with me. You are, aren’t you ALBERT? You’re egging me on, leading me down one blind alley after another. The quintessential cocktease, that’s what you are.

And so I sit, utterly frustrated once again, staring at my half-cocked novel, wondering, What the hell am I supposed to DO with this thing?

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4 thoughts on “my perpetual boner. . .

  1. 😦 I hate when I feel like this. But I’m there a lot. I kind of like it when I’m writing one and querying another, this way when one proves frustrating, I can take a break and drape my hope over the other one, while still feeling–and being! productive. Sometimes if I’m very stuck in a story, but not so stuck I can’t write at all, I write something completely different. A blog post that has nothing to do with writing, a short story, a grocery list, just something to remind myself that this ONE story is not the be all end all, and I can still write.

    • Yep. The act of stepping away helps, too. Sometimes you’re too close, that thing feels like a moon right up in your face, a big ol’ moon is all you see. Step back far enough, you can reach out and pinch that moon between your fingers. . .

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