An Embarrassment Of Bitches

I'm in the throes -- a major wrangling with me, myself, and Evil Twin, who really gave me trouble yesterday. I wanted to write well. She wanted me to do the laundry, take a shower, cook. Now, how rude is that? All part of a conspiracy to distract me from what I needed to be doing -- writing!. Frustrated beyond belief, I decked her one, even though violence is not the answer.

Trouble was, I didn't even know the question.

Well, maybe that's not entirely true. I think it was: how can I write this part of the novel when I am all too aware of what is coming on the heels of Anna Garber's debut? Misery, that's what. 

In fact, the pages I am currently trying to lay down are filled with all the wonder and longing of a young woman, holding a terrible secret, who falls in love with a piano virtuoso in his own right, who will help her unlock the romance in Chopin's soul and in her own. Very romantic stuff, very charged, very tumultuous and ultimately, very...well, let's leave it alone for the moment.


So, two days ago, I had to stare down my own unease with the realization that I am writing a lovely section of my novel-- let's say I am a journalist about to "launch" into a wonderful description of life on board the Titanic, about one day into the trip. Skipping happily along the decks, I am ready to dazzle readers with news of the finery of the first-class cabins, the exorbitant menus at the Captain's table, the excitement of being part of White Star history as I describe this maiden voyage -- all the while knowing that in a matter of hours the Titanic is about to hit that iceberg and sink.


It is hard to write about the hopes and dreams of a main character, lead her on, as it were, or perhaps, allow her to lead me, to a climax I don't wish her to experience. It's a bizarre feeling, it takes courage -- and Evil Twin did not want me to face it down.

Yesterday, I decided I had to get on with it, and so I wrote a lot of garbage. I don't mean garden-variety-twice-a-week-pick-up-garbage, I mean, Jeffrey Dahmer-body-parts garbage. Only, mine was left in a Hefty bag on a porch in the sun for days, kind of garbage, not stored in a freezer.


Evil Twin made me write that crap. And, she left a bag of Viau Whippets chocolate marshmallow biscuits on my desk. My thighs, as they say, are now so big, they've gone condo.


Anyhow, not only did I write garbage and eat garbage and think garbage, I also looked at the garbage in my blog posts -- those shi**y first drafts no one is supposed to see? NaNo stuff? Wow. I have a lot of guts, I think. This really is an interesting November.


I am now over my emotional crisis and raring to tackle this section and deal with whatever fallout arises.


A mafia Don in Montreal was murdered yesterday -- the old Don, the grandfather and founder of his dynasty. Figuratively, he now sleeps with the fishes.
Well, if Evil Twin gets in my way later today, guess what? She's gonna wish she were a better swimmer.