Hanging in there
I want to talk about what I did today, but I can’t. I could, but I won’t. I have to fight all the urges to comment on what I looked up and what I found.
It’s the Twitter effect. I’m so used to blathering on about the excruciating minutiae of life that when I start work on a project that really needs to be kept a bit quiet, I feel like I have mini tourettes. There’s an overwhelming urge to have that great releasing tic. To just blurt out some aspect of what I’m working on.
That’s the part that’s harder than the writing itself. (Though the writing is surprisingly difficult so far.) I feel like I want to say something, but I can’t. I just can’t.
So that’s the struggle with this big Novel Writing Project. Not shooting my load too early. If I say everything along the way, the story won’t be compelling to anyone.
I should turn into one of those cunts with the inspirational posters. (I can’t think of those without thinking of Scott Stovall, who was once watching his grandma’s house and we went over there with him and she had a hang in there kitty poster in one room. We mocked him for weeks. Months, probably.) Instead of telling me to do something like be a team worker, or hang in there, or be awesome, it’ll tell me to think of baseball.