I’m at the point where I’m 1/2-way through this damned novel, and suddenly I’m paralyzed. I feel like it’s utter shit, and I can’t make any headway because I have no faith in my ability as a writer. I am, at this moment, convinced that I’m going to spend the next forty years as a second-string English teacher and a failed writer.
And I look at my last post, and I know it’s true, but I’m not sure I’ve got enough strength in me right now to kick that asshole in the teeth. I mean, I’m doing it–I’m even sitting here writing–but this shit is SO BAD.
Good thing I have permission to write badly, I suppose. But I’m starting to think this novel is destined for the trunk. I guess that might not be a bad thing if I learn something from it. And one never knows, I suppose.
Anyway. Enough self flagellation; back to work.
Edit: I just went back and read over my entries from VP, because I thought it might work as an ego boost. And I was reminded of the specifics of what Jim MacDonald said to me (I really should write that down somewhere in case I ever actually forget, though I probably won’t). And that seems to have banished the self-doubt, though it hasn’t done much for the fried synapses not coming up with anything new.