Couldn’t sleep this morning. Looked at the clock. 3:30 a.m.
So I got up, thinking it was the perfect opportunity to work on my novel, with the kids asleep and the house dark and totally quiet.
It’s now 5:20 a.m., and I have about 12 words to show for my efforts.
Writer’s block is a curious thing, to stare at a screen and feel… well, at a loss for words. This time, I don’t think it’s fear that’s blocking me. I know what that feels like, and my solution has been just to write and write my way out of it. And that’s worked reasonably well. This time, however, I’m feeling a bit scattered. In doing a quick search on “writer’s block” for this blog post, I came across the following on Wikipedia: “A fictional example [of writer’s block] can be found in George Orwell’s novel Keep The Aspidistra Flying, in which the hero Gordon Comstock struggles in vain to complete an epic poem describing a day in London: ‘It was too big for him, that was the truth. It had never really progressed, it had simply fallen apart into a series of fragments.'”
I have a feeling that’s what’s going on with me. The novel is starting to feel like a series of fragments. Each time I open the document, I begin writing somewhere, which is good, but I’ve reached the point in the process where I have to start making sure the writing is making sense for what I’m trying to achieve. Is everything tying together? Do I truly understand these characters? Would he or she say that or do that? I have a solid beginning, and I know where I’m going, but do I know exactly how I’m going to get there?
For the next day or two, I’m going to put together a chapter-by-chapter synopsis of Baby Grand in an effort to try and fill in the holes in the plot. I think that will help me going forward and pray this isn’t just another creative exercise in procrastination.