I am stuck on one of my characters. He is an integral part to the plot and I have to get his story out, but it’s just not coming to me. I feel as if I cannot go on with the rest of my book until I hammer this out. And once I do, I will have to go back and re-tool everything. I am blocked, stalled, annoyed, irritable. I need a break, but I have children. There is no break for a few years. And now we’re in the last stretch of winter, which is a psychological slog no matter how much snow is or isn’t on the ground. All the coffee in the world isn’t going to save me. I just have to eke this out, word by painful word.
Perhaps this is one reason why I had such a visceral reaction to “The Paris Wife” the other week. I read all about how Hemmingway needed all this space and booze and fresh air and inspiration or he just couldn’t write. He had a private cottage he’d go off to every day. He was always booking wild vacations, getting tanked and being intellectual and existential with other lofty folks who all managed to shirk responsibility in the name of their art. Only then was he truly free to write his great American novel(s).
Well up yours, Earnest, you big p*ssy.