I was writing my soon to be multi award winning novel that'll make Stephen King go 'Hmmm, I better go back and re-write all the shite I wrote, make it better, out write smokedragon. Oh! The humanity!"
Then, I stopped.
I don't know why. I just stopped. Before, I'd write a few chapters, go to bed, think about how the story was going, think on what comes next, and
always, always, just before I practice dying, or sleep as it is known, I write the final pages in my head. Gotta get to the end. Write the end. Write THE END!
Thing is, most times, the ending is different to the night before. It was maddening. I tried to force myself NOT to even give two fucks about the end, but,
hell, my mind never listens to me. Just like life, actually.
So, I stopped writing it. It languishes, laughing at me, making me angry and depressed. If I had the balls, I'd delete it all, see how fucking funny it feels now.
I tried writing another chapter just recently, but it seemed off. It didn't have that flow, that similar style, it didn't seem natural. Now, I'm not a writer per
say. I wish to god I was. I'd give my left nut to be a good writer. Or, hell, I'd give up something that actually works in my body to be an average writer.
Just write something, they say. Anything. It'll come back to you. So, on the way to work, and on the way home, little ramblings will pop in my head, and I'd
go home and write them down. Pop them up on the blog. Flush the fucking things out of my head, because I have some weird thoughts. And, I don't even
do drugs. Damn, just imagine if I did. Holy Lord, would my mind be cleansed. Be writing about rainbows, and precious pugs, not rabid, raping Chihuahua's,
and Bendy Barbies.
I've been reading the book on my kindle, and you know, it's not bad. Of course, that's me saying it. I'm sure Pierce Nace was saying the same damn thing.
But, I'm fucking stuck, in some sort of fugue state. I've reached some sort of plateau. All I want to do is take a long run, and leap into the abyss, get back
to finishing the book. That's all I want to do. Finish it.
Anyone out there care to give this poor, depressed, stain of a human being some advice? I sure would appreciate it.
Some one offered to have his wife read the book, but, I chickened out. I was so afraid of feedback, even though I crave it. Does that make sense?
Goddamn coward, I am.
I was gonna print out the book in it's unfinished state, and see how it reads on a page, but it was gonna cost some money at the library, and it's money I
don't have. Gonna have to wait and save up for a black ink cartridge, then print it. And being computer illiterate doesn't help because I can't fucking format
in Scrivener to save my life.
Anyone have help for a newb in that software? I've watched some YouTube video's but it seems more for the Mac version, rather than the PC one.
Thank you.
Then, I stopped.
I don't know why. I just stopped. Before, I'd write a few chapters, go to bed, think about how the story was going, think on what comes next, and
always, always, just before I practice dying, or sleep as it is known, I write the final pages in my head. Gotta get to the end. Write the end. Write THE END!
Thing is, most times, the ending is different to the night before. It was maddening. I tried to force myself NOT to even give two fucks about the end, but,
hell, my mind never listens to me. Just like life, actually.
So, I stopped writing it. It languishes, laughing at me, making me angry and depressed. If I had the balls, I'd delete it all, see how fucking funny it feels now.
I tried writing another chapter just recently, but it seemed off. It didn't have that flow, that similar style, it didn't seem natural. Now, I'm not a writer per
say. I wish to god I was. I'd give my left nut to be a good writer. Or, hell, I'd give up something that actually works in my body to be an average writer.
Just write something, they say. Anything. It'll come back to you. So, on the way to work, and on the way home, little ramblings will pop in my head, and I'd
go home and write them down. Pop them up on the blog. Flush the fucking things out of my head, because I have some weird thoughts. And, I don't even
do drugs. Damn, just imagine if I did. Holy Lord, would my mind be cleansed. Be writing about rainbows, and precious pugs, not rabid, raping Chihuahua's,
and Bendy Barbies.
I've been reading the book on my kindle, and you know, it's not bad. Of course, that's me saying it. I'm sure Pierce Nace was saying the same damn thing.
But, I'm fucking stuck, in some sort of fugue state. I've reached some sort of plateau. All I want to do is take a long run, and leap into the abyss, get back
to finishing the book. That's all I want to do. Finish it.
Anyone out there care to give this poor, depressed, stain of a human being some advice? I sure would appreciate it.
Some one offered to have his wife read the book, but, I chickened out. I was so afraid of feedback, even though I crave it. Does that make sense?
Goddamn coward, I am.
I was gonna print out the book in it's unfinished state, and see how it reads on a page, but it was gonna cost some money at the library, and it's money I
don't have. Gonna have to wait and save up for a black ink cartridge, then print it. And being computer illiterate doesn't help because I can't fucking format
in Scrivener to save my life.
Anyone have help for a newb in that software? I've watched some YouTube video's but it seems more for the Mac version, rather than the PC one.
Thank you.
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