Well, I'm officially WAY behind on this year's novel. If I were on track, I'd be at around 18K words, and I have just about half of that.
But, I'm not willing to concede defeat just yet. Work stuff, cat stuff, health stuff not withstanding, there is still time to catch up.
This year's work is not likely to ever see publication, at least not in its present form. The novel this year is a mishmash of incomplete ideas and sudden, whiplash inducing changes in direction. I guess it's a distillation of some of the weird shit I've been reading in the last few months, mixed up with the frustration that comes with seeing most every idea I've had blow up in my face.
It's part smut, part philosophy, and nearly all unedited stream of consciousness. It's the kind of thing I'd write all the time if I could find a way to permanently ignore or disable the inhibitions that always seem to crop up when I try to do something creative.
You could call it perfectionism, or lack of talent, or even laziness, and all of those descriptions are accurate, but none of them are complete. But it's much simpler, and much more complicated than any of them. It's plain old, garden variety, paralysis-inducing Fear.
And it's the devious little demon that runs my life. It thinks it's protecting me, I suspect. But that little bastard Fear has done me dirty for a long, long time.
This is the part of the piece where I should claim that I'm taking my life back from Fear, but I don't like to lie. The best I can do right now is fight it to a draw, and try to regroup for the next battle.
How's that for a painfully stretched analogy?