Misery and Love
I don’t ever learn anything. I’m not sure I’ve made a wise decision even once. Luckily, I’ve been told time and time again that the thing that matters most is whether or not you stop trying. This isn’t a major problem for me, as I was born anxious and with the aptitude for sinking into persistence if not for comfort’s sake alone. I’m hopeful to make a skill out of this some day.
I’m so tired of drifting backwards with this year. I want to stop thinking about it, making daily references to it like the year itself is cursed - at the same time, I know we’ll be talking about this year for a long time to come. If we don’t, it will fester in our memories; all the time, the missed opportunities, interrupted traditions, and most of all, the people taken from us.
Every entry I’ve written this year and every word therein has by far been my worst. So, to stay in form, I’m going to aim to make this one the absolute worst yet, a task I have both the confidence and aptitude for. But before we get this party started, let me do the monthly writing updates - because I promise with all my heart that I have in fact been writing.
As threatened in last month’s entry, I’ve finally finished the most recent round of edits for Codetta - my first novel, in case you’re new here. I’ve written a couple manuscripts since that one, but something about the story, the characters, and my fantasies about their futures (ie. series outlines) has kept me coming back to that work. I remember telling a coworker an additional round of edits ago that my theory was that if I could make the first book I ever wrote good, then I could make any book good. The truth isn’t as noble. The story of Codetta is a collection of adolescent traumas (some my own, some borrowed) smeared together across a series of tropes that have long grown stale. That deep, personal connection to the story has been hard to let go - but fortunately after this round, I’ve found myself in the lucky position of absolutely hating it.
Sometimes, especially recently, I remember that my best attempt at a novel has been sitting on a hard drive for some time now. I did a read-through maybe a year-and-a-half ago, probably right before that previous round of Codetta edits I mentioned in the last paragraph. I keep recalling the excuses I tell myself for not pursuing that book instead: people won’t get it, it’s too far from the brand I’m trying to establish, it’s too revealing about myself, it’s too cringey - all true! But everything I’ve written is cringey - this blog, for one, is the absolute cringiest thing of all time. Both my partner and one of my earliest readers both told me to pursue that book years ago - but I didn’t, and I can’t even remember why I wrote it now. It feels gone, just like Codetta feels gone, as does Shelle’s Island, yet another mess that I can’t get right - that one I began this year revising, so perhaps it was fated to fester incomplete, another dream deferred by 2020.
This is the part of the blog where I’d typically get to the point. But, I dunno this time, I think wallowing in self-pity is the point, so I hope you’re not put off that this is essentially an invitation to join in. It’s the right time of year for it. After all, a quick check of the news or social media is always a way to sober up and feel ashamed about whatever self-inflicted thing I’m complaining about in here. Maybe a little commiseration is why you’re continuing to read this now.
Y’know, I can’t actually fathom anyone reading anything I’ve written at any point. Should I really be a writer if the idea of being read is so strange? I mean, when I really think about it, the idea of being acknowledged in any capacity is kind of nauseating, so yeah, fuck it I guess.
Another great fear I’ve had has been that I’m too severely under-read to be an actual writer. I’ve had pretty dire attention issues for as long as I can remember and I couldn’t keep up with my reading as I liked after high school. I’ve been struggling to catch up and reverse that, but it’s been frustrating and the concern that I’m not enough of a reader has stuck with me. Last night, I reviewed my reading from this year and found that I read seven books… Not impressive by any means in the grand scheme of the things, but it’s more than I’ve read in a single year in recent memory. Progress is progress, and it was progress I wasn’t aware of having made until I stopped to reflect on it.
Anyway, this is all just shitposting, so please don’t take any of it seriously - I just have to post something or the goblins in my head will call the cops. But before I sign off, I should make good on the love to pair with the misery, as promised in the title of this entry. For all the grind of the novel-writing process, there are surprising moments unlike anything else. Cracking a particular creative problem comes with a special kind of joy - a unique high that feels divine in the moment and makes it all worthwhile. I had at least one such moment while working on the most recent round of edits, and another while planning out my next project. Despite all my bullshit, my main struggle with writing recently has actually been in deciding between the two book ideas that have been rattling around in my head the past couple weeks. After some reflection, I’ve decided on the one I’m writing next. I won’t tell you about it here for fear of cursing it, however I hid the general theme in this entry (and every entry thus far, I suppose), so let’s see if it pans out. Write what you know, they say.
It goes without repeating for the thousandth time that this year has been an overwhelming challenge for every single one of us. But consider this, dear reader, you made it to the end of this blog entry, so you can probably make it through the end of the year too if you stay focused. I’m counting on you, because who else is going to read this shit in 2021. Thank you as always, and I’ll see you on the other side.
