One week down and I have 530 new words to show for it. Only 530 words.
Okay, that’s not exactly accurate. I have pages and pages of freewriting, but only a small number of crafted paragraphs that could, maybe, lead to something larger.
Here I am, second guessing myself again. In my bravado about dumping narrative the other day (and I never really meant dump in the strictest sense), I may have missed something important. Maybe I’m insisting on fragment not because of aesthetics at all, but because I am afraid to deal with the narrative as it happened.
In talks with other writers here, the consensus seems to be that I should at least *try* to finish as I began. I tell my students they should write what scares them, and here I am, hiding under the proverbial covers with my fingers in my ears. Some model.
So I’m frustrated, yes. I have one week left, and I am torn between slogging ahead with this, even though I am doubting its raison d’etre, or getting the poetry manuscript ready for fall contests.
I’m not really doubting the memoir; I’m just overwhelmed by the prospect of it. I should be used to this in my life by now.
Saw a black and white rat snake outside the studio today. It looked to be digesting something. I kind of feel like something’s lodged halfway down my throat, too.