Today I’m wandering. Out to the lake at first, where the fog had settled torn and silent over the water, and the only sounds were my own footsteps and the jingle of my little dog’s tags as she slipped through the forest, her plumy tail up like a flag to lead the way. I was frightened off the path by a stranger with a bigger dog, and ripped my pants on a blackberry bush trying to find my way back. Afterward I sat in my sweaty clothes, sipping hot coffee and scrolling through my pages to no particular end. It depresses me to see how dark my story has become; you are what you write, and there I am. That’s my brain at work, spinning this psychosexual mind fuck with everyone hurting each other and themselves, everyone dead at the end. And the end is the beginning, which means something today that it didn’t yesterday.
I wrote my quota of pages and wandered into the kitchen with Bruce on a loop, where I made a complicated stew that’s simmering now on the stove. I should be lonely here in the empty house. I want to be lonely. But more than that, I want to be alone—with my ugly thoughts and my nasty mind, and this cast of characters who just can’t seem to get off unless they’re fucking each other over in the process.
I lost my protagonist today. She wandered over to the dark side and I can’t even bring myself to mount a rescue.
What do you hate about your writing?