I KEEP WANTING TO HIT THE DELETE KEY. I deleted a total of 1,945 words out of the novel yesterday, and I attribute it to the bitter resentful anger with which I’ve sat at the office (an office which has nothing to do with writing) WAITING TO GO HOME. Seriously, I am dependent on someone else for a ride home and IT IS DRIVING ME NUTS.
Today, despite the extra time at hand, I have banned myself from the novel manuscript because indeed, I know that I would just do the same: I’d probably delete an entire chapter at this rate.
Why is it that I aim my fury at my novel manuscript, much like cutters aim their rage inward at themselves, manifesting in behavior like cutting and slicing away at their own skin to release that pain? I am no longer a cutter, but in this way I am still a cutter: the emotional path is the same, and I cut away at the novel, which is really an extension of my body. Instead of just fucking getting pissed.
I cannot STAND it when people make me WAIT–as if their time is eons more important than my own. Actually–it’s not “as if”–they must truly believe that what they have to do is more important than anything I could be doing. Sometimes I get an apologetic shrug but if I were to make a point of this, communicate my mood, I’ll get a rebuff, I know it.
Maybe it’s my week off from exercise–I’ll go running tomorrow and see if my mood improves, if my teeth ungrit, if my rage subsides.
SO ANGRY.
Writing Under a Pseudonym 