My brain is my hard drive, and right now it’s a bit dead. Maybe it’s too full. I should clear some stuff out. Or maybe the fan got blocked and it overheated and melted. I’ve seen that happen before.
Perhaps I need new virus protection. Visiting Tumblr is probably filling my head with all kind of bugs, corrupting it. Maybe I should just avoid the internet until I’ve strengthened the firewall. Or perhaps I’m fragmented. I should power down for a while, defrag the drive, and then try again.
Whatever the problem, I keep getting error messages.
I’m trying to write, and none of the sentences come out how I wanted.
I’ve finally got the words, and my brain is coming up with unexpected subplots, without first working out how to resolve said subplots, even though this is an eighth draft.
My characters are behaving totally differently to how they behaved in the previous seven drafts.
I’m waking up in the morning with my bedside lamp on and writing all up my arm, with no recollection of waking up and writing it. Scribbled words include “SALT” which was obviously important enough for me to circle it and draw arrows to it, but I’m still not quite certain where I was going with that.
I’m pacing up and down my kitchen for an entire hour trying to work out to fix the problem I’ve written myself into because of these unexpected subplots.
I’m basically treating what should be an eighth draft as a first draft, despite the fact I’ve been working on this thing for two and a half years.
I’m listening to different writing playlists every day trying to get the mood I need to write, because it’s like digging through concrete. I’m setting myself strict wordcount targets and not letting myself watch the Hollow Crown until I’ve hit them, even if that means staying up late.
I’m taking my laptop away with me and intend to get up an hour earlier than my french penfriend while she’s with us in order to get some writing done without being unsociable.
I walked into the kitchen yesterday, saw the salt and said, “Salt.” Because for some reason my brain thinks it’s important to plot, important enough to write it on my arm in big writing. And I need to find some way to include it I think. Unless my brain is just worried about supernatural beasties coming to get me in the night, which is also a possiblity.
I live at my desk. My laptop is on about ten hours a day, sometimes more. When I can’t write, I pace and I think about writing.
And yet I’m working at my ordinary speed. All day I’ve got to write, and I’m writing the same amount as I did when I was at school. So I’ve been decorating and reorganising and I’ve had ballet shows. but the rest of the time? I’ve been staring at a blank page.
My hard drive is most definitely having issues. I think my characters have got in there and corrupted it – I’ve managed to establish that my MC, Alex, is an accomplished hacker (something I didn’t know in seven previous drafts, and now do). And I refuse to let them beat me.
“Well, maybe you’re just not feeling it today. Do it tomorrow instead.” That what my parents are telling me every time I complain that I can’t write.
Do they not get that you can’t just sit there waiting for the muse to hit? If you’re a writer, you write, and neither rain nor snow nor glom of nit can stay you from your duty. That is the rule. But my family don’t seem to get that.
So I’m sitting here. I’m not complaining any more because they’ll tell me to take a break. I’m defragging the hard drive, clearing out anything I don’t need (if I forget your name, I’m sorry), and locking the characters who aren’t completely necessary right now in a little cupboard to come out when they’re needed.
And I will write this thing or I will explode trying.