This morning we took a walk around the new neighborhood. We found a park on the shores of yet another enchanting lake, where two bald eagles were fighting it out with a flock of infuriated starlings. We discovered the community center, which bears further exploration, and a small dock where children are allowed to fish. We stopped at the edge of a meadow to talk to the owners of two large dogs, who welcomed us to Lacey and gave us tons of advice and told us how much we’d love it here.
I needed the pick-me-up, because a pre-dawn reading through my pages after a week away has filled me with a mixture of shame and despair. I know that first drafts are notoriously ugly, I know I can fix what’s going wrong, but christ what a gargantuan mess it all seems from here. Like looking around your house and realizing that everything you own needs to be cleaned and packed and loaded and hauled and unpacked again when you get where you’re going. But although the analogy begs to be expounded upon, my friends, please don’t agree that writing a book is just like moving. That it’s like building a house, or making a long journey while never looking up from your feet, or working a jigsaw puzzle, or bathing a toddler, or fucking a donkey, or deadheading the roses, or writing a report about birds the night before it’s due. Today I refuse to be comforted. My misery wants company and platitudes need not apply.
Where’s your project on the fucked-uppedness scale?