Ever have the urge to write something long form and strongly suspect it will be utter shite when you get started, so bad that even hogs would eat around it in the slop trough (and they’ll eat anything, or so I hear)? You know that it’ll be a time sink and an utter waste of energy… But still you feel compelled to enter the torture chamber of your mind and let the mind flaying commence, knowing it will only end up in ruin and deep depression? And maybe the stubs of fingers stopping where you used to have joints?
And, to make matters worse, you don’t even know what it is that you want to write?
Straight Lit? Genre fiction? Subgenre fiction? Some genre that only even the truly profane wouldn’t touch with a sixteen and a half foot pole? Memoir (shudder, anything but that = my initial reaction to the idea)? Fuck historical fiction or romanticurbanfantasyhorror (dinnae get me started on that topic; writing memoirs would be preferable).
Yeah. That’s where I’m at this past week. I’m resisting the urge to write something longform because I can’t decide what I think I might be compelled to write and, well, I’m tired of everything seeming not very good (even with rewrites and edits) by the end. I don’t need another steaming, hot pile of tripe and viscera.
But, like a daemon haunting me inside (and no small amount of the self-torturer) commands: WRITE!
But what? And, what would I change to make it not-shite?
Maybe if I wore one of those seer-blindfolds I could find something. Doubtful, but possibly worth it. It’s a great delay tactic, if nothing else.