Posted by Tin Soldier on 6/26/2009 11:51:00 AM in novel diary
I've been a very bad writer this week, averaging less than 200 words per day. I lost the initial momentum that piggybacked me up until the week before. A mixture of feelings and little happenings got in the way of writing. Things that I so want to use as excuses but there is no excuse good enough for the slumped labour. I got careless.
But I have to admit this writing business is not easy on the guts. It is as lonesome as it gets. Everyday there's something that beckons you over to the other side of solitude. No sane man would want to live like this. Yet I'm not brave enough to stop. It got me wondering: Would my life be any less meaningful without this self-induced torment? And has this quest been an attempt to infuse meaning into a meaningless void all along?
To be honest I don't have a definite answer. But I know I would have still been dreaming about writing had there not been certain recent incidents that rendered this next step necessary. Writing used to be hard. Now it's both hard and imperative.