I don’t even like those two words. They feel like a lie. A crappy, cliched lie. Writer’s Block? No, I could write easily. It might be garbage, but I could pump out worthless, hollow content all day. (See: E.L. James)
Here I sit, one chapter away from completing my Post-apoc novel I’ve been lovingly slaving over for two years. One damned chapter. It’s not even the last chapter for Mad Max’s sake. It’s not because I don’t know what to write. I have already outlined what it should be. I just don’t feel that what I decided it should be does the story justice. Woe is me! (First world non-nuclear fallout problems.)
Well, screw it. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for it to be right. Every day I wake up and claw my mind for ‘le mot juste’ so to speak, hoping the perfect idea will pop into my head on how to reinvent the end of this one character’s arc.
Maybe, Hopefully, one day I’ll have deadlines to fulfill. When that day comes, I’ll force it out, butcher’s cleaver edit it and come up with what will at least satisfy me. Until that day comes I’ll just enjoy the freedom that comes with being an utterly unpublished novelist– the time is all mine. Now I just have to hope I don’t get hit by a bus or have an anuerism until then. At least there’s no motorcyle-driving flail-wielding wastelanders chasing me.