"No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." –Samuel Johnson
So maybe this is my problem. As much as I say I want to finish my novel, and as much as I think I want to finish my novel, I think I’ve internalized the fact that no one is paying me to do this, and there’s a chance (probably a good one) that no one will ever pay me for having done it. (Don’t say that! –internal cheerleader)
And so I find 1,001 ways to avoid working on the book, channeling my energy instead into Real Writing that someone is Paying Me to Do or into such worthwhile but non-writerly pursuits as cleaning my office (for the four-thousandth time this month), washing the laundry or applying Colgate Simply White to my teeth.
My latest method of novelistic evasion? Being firmly convinced that there is a deeply-rooted flaw in the very structure of the book, one which will not allow writing to progress until it is identified and rooted out. Poor Sweetie had to listen to me going on and on about this for a while last night over pizza ‘n’ wine.
Then this morning, while in the shower (the true mother of invention), I realized what the problem was. And also how to fix it.
And now I’ll have to come up with another way to avoid writing the book. Or maybe actually write the damn thing.