I’ve Got Scars, Can’t Be Seen

I’m sitting here with a novel to write, and I can’t put one damned word on the page. Totally bunged up. Afraid to write the wrong thing. Tired of failing to break through. Trying to make myself climb to the summit, but terrified of dying on the mountainside, alone and forgotten.

It’s not all sadness and woe. But there’s enough of it going around.

What it is, is that I’m having trouble processing what I already know about the characters I’ve started writing well enough to move on to the myriad characters and situations that also fit in the stories. I have a format that I should be able to work with, but I can’t seem to relax enough to get out of my own way and just start writing. I have some phantom future self waggling its finger and shaking its head at me. Not even a challenge so much as a dismissal.

“You can’t do this. You’re not good enough. You’re an impostor. Give it up and go find a nice job sweeping up at the bowling alley or something.”

This is the opposite of the empowered entitlement that we accuse Millennials of having. I have a slave’s mentality that freedom is the one thing I can never heave. It’s been beaten into me psychologically since I was a kid. Mom did her best to empower me, but growing up in poverty has taught me my place on a psychological level that is hard to get around. The world has taught me to take the shit I’m offered or fuck off. That’s not unique experience. We all feel it to one degree or another. Well, maybe not some Millennials. I don’t know. It’s like a foreign concept to me. Self-Ease. Not Selfies. Self-Ease. The feeling of contentment, of knowing your self worth before you’ve even done a thing to prove your worth. I’d love to feel that. I’ve actually done things that still haven’t given me that feeling yet. I am a broken robot.

So, the novel is floating in a river of self-pity. Bugger.

I’m determined to write it, though. Too many good ideas in there. The one hangup I have is, the ending doesn’t feel as clever as the separate parts. I feel like the ending has to be mind-blowing. Not sure I’ve nailed that part of it yet, though I do have a pretty well fleshed out story for the final act. Just not sold. It’s like knowing you’re in the right shopping mall, but having blurry vision that won’t let you read the map properly to get to the stores you need to shop at. I can’t just wait for more dreams to fill up the spaces in the novel. I already based large portions of the novel on dream stuff. Heck, I think at least one or two of the ideas is based on Dawn’s dreams, not mine.

Maybe it’s not too late to get her to ghostwrite it for me.


Okay. I’ll write it.

But I really want to be amazed and scared by its brilliance.

But I’m afraid it’s just going to seem pedestrian. And I’ll be the only one who thinks it’s great.


Sorry, folks. Hopefully I’ll be in better shape tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Don't be shy. Tell me what you really think, now.


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