I have spent the better part of the day – maybe six hours all told but it could be pushing eight – writing a total of five pages. They obviously did not come easy. Every word in every line feels wrong, every motivation stilted. It’s pushing 1 AM and I am reluctant to quit for the day despite my fatigue because I don’t feel I’ve done enough to justify sleep.
I write a few lines, I back up several paragraphs to regain momentum, scrawl another line, stop. I read and reread. I see where I’ll have to go back and work dialogue, make the characters voices distinct. I spot details I will have to back-fill.
I so want to quit this story.
I cannot beleive this simple story doesn’t want to be told, at least not at this time.
I feel like one of my freakin’ characters, trapped in the darkest part of their journey, steeped in bleek and certain I’ll never find my way out. All well and good, because I need to be able to feel that in order to properly convey that same feeling through my character, but why the hell can’t I get the characters into this spot? Why am I on the inside and they’re on the outside?
These are the moments where we go in search of the impossible, the ridiculous. I want a mysterious stranger to deliver the magic pebble, or secret map. A little personal deus ex machina, if you will. Just this once, just to get over the hump.
I know, I signed up for this. No one said it would be easy. I know. I know.