At around 5 AM today, I finished the first part
of a nightmare. There are approximately 8 or 9 more parts to this nightmare so
at the rate I’m going, this’ll be ready by the end of the next century. I need
it sooner than that, of course, and I’m looking into cloning and also time
travel.
Officially, this is the first time I’ve ever done
this kind of thing, as I knew that it is a major soul sucking endeavor and I would have to be crazy to even attempt it. All the other writers will
understand when I say this: It feels like I’m slathering shit upon a page. I
feel like I’m back in high school again – writing stuff that sucked so severely
that they didn’t merit saving.
At one point, I considered deleting the draft
and never looking back. Seriously, I don’t even know how Remi can put up with
me when I’m in this state. It starts with a feverish bout of maniacal writing,
then the steam goes kaput and I go into a downward spiral that ends in a pit
that’s as shitty as my writing.
Actually, no. If you want a more eloquent
explanation, check out what Libba Bray has to say about The No Good, Horrible,Very Bad Writing Day.
Still though, I whine but at the end of the
day, I have to bust out the drums and sing The Battle Song of the Storyteller
(by Chuck Wendig). Sing with me:
I don’t know what the fuck my story is.
But I know that it is more than ink on a page.
It’s blood. And spit. And sweat. And milk.
The story is whatever I want it to be.
Anything at all. Open season. Empty page. Tabula rasa. Solve-for-X.
I am a storyteller and I swim in possibilities.
I am a storyteller and I command the ideas to get in line and march as I say.
I am a storyteller and the audience belongs to me as much as I belong to them.
I am a storyteller and I will nail this narrative to the wall.
I am a storyteller and I will write the tits off this motherfucker.
I am a storyteller and this is my sexy party, yo.
I am a storyteller and I am the story told.
I am a storyteller and I will finish the tale I am telling.
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