If I would have known finishing this novel would be a bazillion times harder than starting it, I would have given up long ago. Yet somehow, I’m nearing 300 pages. My car broke down twice last week. I’m doing the weird things I do when I’m deep in the dark of writing, like buying things off Craigslist and bursting into tears for no reason. I lost my fit model job. Sometimes, I feel like my story is good but my words are general. Other times, I feel like my story is bland but my words are original. A garment bag keeps making an appearance in my novel and I don’t know why. I feel incredibly depressed. The higher I climb toward the novel being finished, the farther I realize I have to go. At every turn, I open a Pandora’s box of plot problems and skimmed-over sections. I’m desperate to be a not-so-starving artist, and terrified of real success. I’m living by this excerpt from a book about how to stop worrying about worrying:
“You don’t need perfection—you need progress. Become successful at being actively imperfect on a daily basis.”
Successful imperfection. Okay.
Constructive discomfort. Got it.
And I have decided: To achieve inner peace, you must become an observer of your own thoughts.
And I love this line from a poem my German friend Robin gave me: “The purity in pure despair.”
And I wrote this recently:
A thrill arrives,
On gilded lies
In the dark romances
And thumping heart
Of lovers’ eyes
I’m turning in my manuscript to my manager on Wednesday and meeting my agent in NYC on Friday.