Or broke, as it were.
This two-month hiatus wasn't planned or anticipated but it was kicked off in grand fashion. Work got a little crazy, then a bit of a celebration for a close friend happened and a great time was had by all. I've talked about the aftermath of these sorts of things before, and I'm no better at dealing with it now than then. It's a shit excuse, but it's the one I had and I took it to the house. I also rocketed up almost twenty pounds in the space of three weeks..
About four or five weeks ago there were a few tenuous moments where I almost turned back to the book but didn't. A couple of work projects ended, one quickie started and ended, and blah blah blah I flaked. After that it was all downhill until I got out of the bad eating / drinking / sleeping spiral I was surfing.
I don't know if I'm really out of the skid yet, but at least my hands are back on the wheel. I got my weight back down to where it was before all of this and I thought I would start back on the book this (last?) week, but part of getting right with myself was admitting I need to bill more hours and that means going out and looking for more work. It's one of those things I'm perennially, irrevocably bad at no matter how or what I try. So that's cost some energy while offering up the best sort of excuse.
Now those I'm pretty good at. I'm the da Vinci of excuses.
The good news is that I opened up Nothing Will Burn and looked it over tonight. As happens with most of my faves, it's better than I remembered. Tomorrow I'll work on it unless something truly awful happens, and we'll say the same for the night after. Do we make it a streak?
Who the fuck is "we?"
But seriously folks, that's it for the progress update. In a nutshell: NONE. It's probably more information than you needed and I advise you to stop here. What follows is basically just another whiny, sort of masturbatory paragraph I mostly can't stop myself writing at the moment, so consider your triggers warned:
Things like this will probably happen again as I drag my knuckles along this loping path here, but I will get there. I generally do with things I've decided to do. The recurring theme in these potholes I hit (as I positively smear a palette of metaphors with a wet mop) is how big every little thing looks once I stop moving. When I started this book, it felt bigger and bigger in scope, but I never felt under its shadow until, I guess, I was no longer on top of it. Makes sense, if maybe it's a little on-the-nose. I guess what I'm saying is, though I've been in spaces where all the small things have appeared large many times in my life (none so much as after a good partay), I've never wanted so badly not to do something that I simultaneously wanted so badly to do. Were I cut from finer cloth as a writer, I imagine I would have tried to inflate that duality into something iconic and meaningful, like the peace sign on the jarhead helmet inscribed with "BORN TO KILL." Well, I don't have the fucking energy. It's just weird. And it happened. And I'll be so glad when it's gone.