Thursday, November 1, 2007


I;m feeling frustrated right now because I can;t do my job, that is, writing. My therapist says that my job at the moment is to get healthy, but I can;t buy it completely. I'm a writer, I should be writing. Of course I do SOME writing--like I wrote this blog every day in October and I've lately been creating diaries for my cats on catster. Is that lame or what? I don't know; i don't really think so but sometimes I do.

but the big projects are ecsaping me. I had an inquiry today on Locked. She wanted to know when it would be finished so she could buy it. Well, I had to tell her I don't KNOW when it will be finished because trying to write on it right now is like wading through a pool of maple syrup. I wrote 15 chapters without a break and now I'm totally stuck. I have the first few lines of the next chapter revolving in my head like some kind of insane carousel but I don't know where it goes from there. When I started writing it, this didn;;t bother me. I meant it to be totaly stream of consciousness. My stream, however, seems to be dammed at the source.

And She Moved through the Fair. I still have those same five pages on my hard drive and nowhere to go. Or rather, I know where to go but I don't seem to be able to make it go there. I think about writing and I just get all nauseated and shivery. I guess I'm having some kind of writer's block about it. I guess this is a natural part of the process. I guess that when you;re trying to get stabilised from Bipolar Disorder it's normal to put other things on hold.

But Dammit I WANT to be writing. Not just blogs and cat diaries, but stories. How can you want something so bad and not be able to do it? This is what I don;t understand.

I;m afraid. I know I;m afraid of writing these things and I don't know why. Fear of failure? Fear of success? i dreamed again last night that I got a message from Tor that they were going to publish The Unquiet Grave--again it was quite surreal, but it was a positive dream. S why am I so afraid? I long for the days when writing was not only an escape but a joy for me. Mayeb that's it--I just don;t experience joy at all. When I look inside myself all I see is this festering pit of old pain. I gues it's not done with me, or I with it, yet or something.

Maybe I should do something else for a while like paint or draw or needlepoint...

No comments: