So I'm never posting anymore. I just don't have time in the day. I have so much writing to do - I could take a week off work and still not get through all I need to. I envy and admire people like Kat who is married, teaches, and writes novels and short stories and I assume sleeps at some point, too. I work 8 hours and then come home and write for 2, if that, and then sit down and watch Scrubs and pass out in the chair. It's like this everyday. Except the ones where I go downtown for a beer that turns into three.
Maud has a nice post on the catch-22 of wanting to discuss your writing - it helps untangle those knots - and the fear of 'talking it away' as Fitzgerald feared he did. I fear that as much as I do I am simply polishing a turd. I realize - for the umpteenth time - the 'correct' way to begin the first novel of the Big Damn Epic and the work required isn't remodeling, its demolishing what was there and putting something new up in its place. Strangely, rightly, finally, the book is back to where it began as I first concieved it a long time ago - I won't talk that away here - but the detour was a frustrating, maybe necessary sojourn into territory that had to be explored to understand what it was I was writing. Or not writing. And I am not writing, right now, because I am blogging. Because Ben shamed me into it for not posting. So I will stop. For now.
My cousin Matt has a new blog. Check it out.