Lots of monsters in my head earlier in the week. I had a proper breakdown. Just ask my wife. I told her that this was it, the book that would kill me. Nothing was making sense. I didn’t believe my characters’ actions, and even worse, the ending I’d planned for over two years now, the one gifted to me by my muse and a major reason I felt inspired to write the book in the first place, wasn’t making any sense.
So not only was I way behind, but I was going in the wrong direction, AND the one thing I thought I had, good instincts, had proven to be a sham. I was a hack with no instincts and a deadline that made me feel like I was tied to a stake with someone lighting the stack of wood under me.
I even called my agent and told her I wanted to hurl myself out the window. (I know, so dramatic.) She laughed, then said something like, “Boo, stop looking at the boulder you have to push uphill. You’re already at the top of the mountain looking back down at the wonderful book you wrote, grateful that these challenges pushed you to your best.” I kind of sort of heard her whilst I banged my head upon my desk.
It didn’t help that we snuck down to NYC for a few days. Don’t do that when you’re way behind and have the sharp teeth of a deadline waiting to chomp down on you. We experienced the worst turbulence of my life on the plane back to Maine, while I was trying to get in my last words of the day.
A guy actually threw up on the flight attendant and all over the carpet and little kitchen and the bathroom and pilot door. Once the attendant had cleaned herself off, while taking a break from scrubbing the walls with her colleague, she put on a smile and said through the speakers, “I know this is scary, but it’s perfectly normal. We’ll be just fine.”
I was pretty sure we were goners.
My psychotherapist, who is also my wife and a saint, told me yesterday to stop and take a break. I’d simply hit my limit, that it was a bit of literary turbulence and that I’d be “just fine.”
“I can’t stop, honey. I have to hit my word count.” (She might cut me if I ever say “word count” again.)
She pretty much repeated what the flight attendant said. “I know you’re afraid, but you do this every book. Every. Single. Book. It’s totally normal. And you’re exhausted.”
I smacked my forehead.
But she was right. I climbed into bed in the afternoon and binge-watched some Taylor Sheridan, then crashed hard. I woke up after a good eight-hour dreamfest with a warrior mindset.
Later, Mikella came in with her coffee and asked, “How does it feel today?” She was smirking because she already knew the answer. She’d been listening to my fingers hammering away at the keys since five.
I said sheepishly, “Yeah, I might have fixed the issues, and things are back on track. I’m actually having…fun.”
She crossed herself. Actually crossed herself.
You know the only thing more difficult than being a writer?
Being married to one. (Okay, being a flight attendant seems like a tough gig too. And a literary agent. Imagine dealing with a whole horde of crazed lunatics—er, I mean, writers.)
Okay, back to it! I’ve broken through 100k words, maybe 20k more to go. August 11th, here we come! I love deadlines. Just love ‘em! They really bring out your best.
I hope you’re having a much smoother week.
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