Sometimes, I feel as if I am writing into a void. I'm working on a novel and it feels weird, lonely, and sad at times. My protagonist is unhappy. Her world is a mess.
She's an alcoholic and spends most nights at her favorite bar by herself, barflying it. Mornings are spent at the outpost cafe where she works as a truck stop waitress.
My deadline is coming up. Not yet, but soon. It's a self imposed deadline for a collective I'm part of next year. I will be workshopping my book with two other writers. They are both writing fiction and I know and love their work, so I'm excited. But I've never written fiction, and it's going way slower than I anticipated.
Plus, I only have weekends to write this novel, my weekdays are work filled and my early mornings during the week are reserved for my blog, substack and my recovery 6 am meeting. I figure, hey, if I don't finish in time, I'll just submit a book of essays for the collective. It might not be in pretty shape, but at least I have most of that in separate pieces.
It's my backup plan; I always need one.
Maybe because I'm primarily a memoirist and essayist, it feels odd not to reach into my own experience. I want to write in my voice in the novel, what I am calling my truck stop waitress novel. Yet, I'm not this protagonist. I mean there are a few similarities, she used to be a lawyer for example, but she is not me.
So where exactly do I go from here? I guess I just need to sit my butt in my chair this weekend and write. Write. Write. Then write some more. I suppose I'm just dancing with myself here. Dilly dallying. Finding a way to not do what I need to do. Put away the Gilmore Girls reruns and write! I'm talking to myself now too.
I better go write. Love you all. Thank you for listening.
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