I just spent the last five minutes literally banging my head against my desk. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. This is too huge of an undertaking. To write a whole damn novel. Let me tell you, it has NOTHING to do with the time frame of thirty days. It’s the actual writing. To create a whole story that makes sense across hundreds of pages. Novelists are the most genius, strong, enduring of all artists. I don’t think I have what it takes to join their ranks. I know should be keeping my cool and not admitting all this to the world, but I need to vent! Maybe working bacon wrapped hot dog promotions the rest of my life wouldn’t be so bad.
I survived. I did it. 1,701 words. It really only took two hours, much of that time was agonizing, but really–what’s two hours a day for thirty days to write a novel? I miss screenwriting. But I don’t miss bacon wrapped hot dogs. Or mini flying helicopters. Or the other random shitty single-serving jobs I’ve been working lately. Sigh. Tomorrow I will outline. Hopefully that will help with the angst.