July 13, 2021
I sent my writing coach these notes for our phone call last Thursday, and then all we talked about for an hour was how I need to learn how to write a scene, and he’d ask me questions like “what made you decide to take the job in Louisville” and I said “because it was more money” and he’d say BORING. And then I’d give him another answer and he’d say BORING. And then I’d say “Well I thought…” and he’d say THIS ISN’T A BOOK ABOUT YOU IT’S FICTION! And then at the end of the call I was crying. But at least I waited until five minutes before the end of the call to start sniffing back my snot. But he knew I was upset…
Because it is a book about me. It’s not fiction! The main character is me! And I don’t know how to write about things I haven’t experienced or else learned about through some other means (people’s stories, books, movies) and can really feel.
So, after that phone call, I flipped and went to the casino. Because I just think I’m never going to get this book finished because I don’t get the mechanics of a novel. Ya, I’m an excellent writer. But I’ve got to understand scenes, chapters, sections, storylines, subplots, blah blah blah blah. And that’s what I’m struggling with.
But then he sent me that email tonight, and it made me feel better. If he’d just throw me a fucking bone, every other day say, I’d be OK. He’s such a fucking emotionally unavailable man. And apparently those are the ones I like best.
But I know I’ll get this. I have to get this. I cannot fucking live on $2K a month for the rest of my life. I do not want to live like this. I don’t have to be rich, but $2K a month is fucking ridiculous.
Thank you for reading my stuff (which is apparently shit)… Thanks for making me feel good about it, and telling me over and over it’s not shit.
My life. I tell ya.