
A little stream of consciousness…
I feel like I am running out of time to write sometimes. I was just marveling at the arrival of October, and now we are almost done with it! Have I made much progress on Eclipse? It often fees like I haven’t, but being kind to yourself while writing is difficult.
Drafting is tearing me up. I tumble through hours of work at my actual job, into hours of working on my draft. At times, I feel my body falling apart from the stress of keeping my life together, the insanity of American politics, an upcoming election, climate catastrophes, and the increasing costs of living, yet in this moment of extreme uncertainty and work, I am ecstatic to have pulled my writing drive out of the pits of idleness… even when I think I’ve written slop.
I feel like I should be depressed and anxious about every problem the news spits out at us at every second. In reality, fear breeds inaction at every level of life. I have too much to do to be worried about everything that could kill me, my friends, my family, strangers, puppies, and kittens.
My eyesight worsened from staring at screens all day and I gained a little weight because I need one less thing to keep track of. I traded martial arts for walking, and work out two or three days a week instead of five so I can stop obsessing over what American society wants me to worry about and obsess over what I want to worry about: writing.
Drafting has felt like the worst of my problems because it has been forcing me out of my comfortable place of inaction and perfectionism. It has been different writing even when I think the progress of the day is weak. Filling up the plot with rising action has been a struggle as I navigate the dreaded middle of my book, knowing where I roughly want to take the story, but discovery has lagged behind into a bunch of scenes I now have to rewrite.
The silver lining in all of this is that I paid my bills, so I can rest easy as I trudge on—cramping fingers and carpal tunnel be damned—dishing out what I think (hope, really) is a relatively original story.
Yet in the turmoil of it all, this is therapeutic. There is nothing like living in the present, turning current events into a fantasy novel to make sense of the world I live in. It provides a unique sense of hope, and is a far healthier alternative to doom scrolling.
It can be tough pushing through. Something gets put down on paper—no matter how raw, trashy, inconsistent, incomplete, worrisome, cliche, repetitive, ridiculous, repulsive, hideous, eye-rolling, and boring.
No draft is a masterpiece.
If only I had known this earlier. I suppose better late than never.



































