Updated: Sep 7, 2019
AUGUST WORD COUNT: 16,118
SCREAMERS – 10k / 90k
JINX – 7k / 80k
WINE MOM/VODKA AUNT – 5k / 20k
CINDERELLA – 10k / 90k
STIFF AS A BOARD – 3k / 100k
THE WOODS – 4k / 25k
TOO MANY TIMELINES FOR COMFORT – 8k / 95k
SMALL TOWN – 3k / 30k
BREATHE UNDERWATER - editing
Hand to god, realizing it’s already September has given me temporal whiplash. And a migraine. And an age-inappropriate heart murmur. Like, what the fuck. Yesterday it was Easter. I was hard boiling seven million eggs and trying to decide which giant stuffed animal at the store looked less like a serial killer made it while also trying to talk my five-year old out of laying traps for the Easter Bunny. Spring was here in all its damp, green, pollen-saturated glory, and it still technically felt like there was a ton of time left.
Time left for what, I have no idea, the future is a great and terrifying mystery to me, but there was a general feeling of vaguely cautious optimism about the remainder of 2019.
And then summer arrived, took a good hard look around, and apparently decided to say “fuck all y’all” before vanishing quicker than my dignity in a dive bar the summer after my first year of college.
Summer gave me a fake phone number and pretended not to know how to put on a condom.
Summer did not want to stay for breakfast.
Anyway, what I’m doing a frankly stellar job of talking around, here, is that it is somehow September, just a couple of weeks away from calendar-official autumn—and the deeply long-suffering release of LIGHT AS A FEATHER—and I have reached maybe a quarter of the writing goals I set for myself back in January. Maybe. That could be a generous assessment, but you know what, I’m feeling generous today, so let’s go with it.
Zero point two-five.
What this number tells me is that—well, for one, I probably set absolutely asinine writing goals for myself back in January, Jesus Christ—but also, two, I probably need to be significantly better about sticking to one project at a time. Like, I am prone to egregious fits of self-indulgence. I have the attention span of a baby deer in a vegetable garden. These are just The Facts.
And my WIP list is like a slowly updating computer that’s been running Windows Vista for fifteen straight years—the progress bar is seemingly always stuck at 33%. It never moves. Occasionally, there is a promising mechanical whirring noise that gives you false hope and makes you think it might finish soon, but it’s a bullshit bald-faced lie. It is never finished. Nothing will ever be updated.
Luckily, I have a plan to productively wrangle all my stray garbage.
A new plan.
A foolproof plan.
Instead of flitting back and forth between projects like a particularly slutty hummingbird, I will be doing this:
I will assemble a wide assortment of tiny pieces of paper.
I will write down the working titles of all my current WIPs – minus BREATHE UNDERWATER, which is mostly done – using sparkly pastel-colored gel pens.
I will expertly fold these tiny pieces of paper.
I will put the tiny pieces of paper in a hat.
I will shake the hat.
I will close my eyes and pick one of the tiny pieces of paper out of the hat.
I will read the working title of the WIP that will have my undivided attention for as long as it takes to fucking finish it.
That’s the plan.
The whole plan.
I remain undefeated as an artist and a scholar, and I might actually post a video of this exercise for the sake of wine-fueled posterity, and if you haven’t subscribed for updates to my blog/me/my creative dysfunction, you’re really missing out, man.