So, as of this point, I’ve got 49,067 words down in the first draft of the novel that I’m writing for my thesis.
It’s safe to say that I hate every single fucking word of it.
This should be expected, of course. I’ve reached this point in—well, I was about to say every novel I’ve written (you know, all two of them… that is, if we’re only counting the novels that so far have or will see the light of day), but to be honest here, I’ve reached this point with every thing I’ve ever written. Every short story has reached a stage where I wanted to throw it across the room. (Since I do most of my writing on a laptop, it’s fortunate that I’ve so far resisted this urge.) A time comes when the plot feels contrived, the characters are wooden, and it’s like every aspect of the story wants to deliberately hurt me.
(Let’s pause a moment and talk about how much I love, love, love Willow Rosenberg. Out of all the characters on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, she was probably my favorite. It’s kind of a toss-up between her and [Mrs.] Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins [Harris].)
In running, it might be what you call hitting the wall, but I’ve never believed in the wall, much the same way I’ve conditioned myself out of writer’s block. I’m not going to go so far as to say writer’s block doesn’t exist, because I know it’s real for some, but for me, it’s been more like the blerch, that voice in the back of your head that says you can take a day off, you don’t have to write as much, go ahead and have that extra piece of pie, finish the hummus, and hey crack open another bottle of wine while you’re at it, will ya?
Yeah, I try not to listen to the blerch… which is why I’m not stopping at this point, even though I pretty much despise every word that winds up on the screen. I’ve still been writing scenes today, and I’ve started fleshing out my outline more, and I’m remembering the words of advice a friend gave me once:
Let it suck.
Because you can edit a crappy page of writing, but you can’t edit a blank page.