damn you, bridget

okay, so here we go. out with it.

i can’t write a fucking thing. not even a character inner monologue, scene outline, nothing in over a month. 150 fucking pages in and i’m FROZEN.

the temptation i have is to print it all out and go in with a marker and circle all the salvageable pieces. scrap the fucking thing for parts. 5  & 1/2 chapters of scrap metal.

and by parts, i mainly mean characters. i’ve got a decent and possibly tweakable first chapter, a cast i’m in love with, and a cunt bitch of a main character who grabbed my nice, neat linear plot and shredded it with her slightly crooked teeth. i also just recognized someone as a character from another story – revamped, and realized he just needs to stop lying to himself and be who he was in this other story – instead of a rehash, he should be an honest overlap. 

frozen by form and fear (much like this sentence was just hijacked by F sounds) i just kept rolling along, worrying about voice, and in the meantime bridget was talking herself right out of her fate and into a different plot. and she’s soooo RIGHT. there can be more to this. if i can swallow the bile and burn the manuscript i really may have something. no more gilded cage, i’ve underestimated myself with the ever-so-frightening word “NOVEL.”

no more lying to myself and lying in bed thinking up new scenes (as i have for weeks) that the back of my brain knows will never be typed out. just spinning my wheels while i waited for the courage to do this. slash and burn, slash and burn.

wish me luck, and the presence of mind not to vomit when i trash the original.

(now that i’ve said it, it can’t be unsaid, and that’s where a lot of courage comes from i think – the inability to chickenshit backpedal)

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