The short piece isn’t coming together. The more I pound on it, the more it wants to fly apart, much like the chicken breast I sort of, uhm, pulped this afternoon when I was trying to pound it flat. No kidding, it looked like what was left of the preserved frog I tried to dissect in high school biology, only not bony, green and formaldehyde glazed.
Don’t get me started on my knife skills. Every time I cut something up, I’m almost certain Gordon Ramsay is going to pop out of the pantry and smack me across the nose with a roll of parchment paper. Let’s just say that my dicing is as uneven as my coffee used to be before we got the K-Cup machine.
Also, don’t get me started on the number of coffee makers I managed to destroy before we got the K-Cup machine. It’s slightly larger than the number of cell phones and PDAs I’ve killed just from being me.
It’s not that the words aren’t happening. They’re even coming out in complete sentences. It’s more that the complete sentences don’t want to be in the right order, or Zuul forbid, anywhere near the outline. Yes, I have an outline. It has a beginning, middle and end. The sentences hate it, and I hate them for not wanting to get along with it because it’s a perfectly nice outline, even though it smells.
I imagine that everything will be okay once the sentences convince me that there’s something more damaged about the outline than its reeking like the memory of that mauled frog. Once I hate it as much as they do, I’ll get the story finished just to get it out of my house.
Really. Pretty sure everything will be okay. This said, yes, there are very fine lines between ‘hating my writing so much that it gets done and submitted’, ‘hating it so much that it gets deleted’ and ‘hating it so much that I print it out, delete the file, then burn the hard copy while shrieking incoherently’. There’s also the less benign barrier between where I’m at now and thinking ‘the story’s not so terrible, but needs some work’. If I cross it, the story’ll get shoved into a folder and forgotten about for … oh, nearly ever.
Just last week, while I was going through some old unlabeled CD-Rs, I stumbled across a fifteen year old half-finished dark fantasy novel. It’s still not so terrible. It definitely still needs some work. I moved it to another folder. That should take care of it for another five years.
Yes, we’re all fine here. Just fine. I’m not the least bit anxious about my bloodwork, promotion paperwork, being prepared for the weekend dumpster shenanigans (I’m so woefully not, and it’s almost Wednesday), getting 40 boxes of juice to the Monster’s kindergarten class tomorrow without him seeing me in his school, the dead mice Rover keeps leaving on the porch, the math that’s making less sense the more I do of it et cetera et al und so weiter.
Everything will work out. After all, today’s chicken paste wound up tasting just like chicken.