There is a tendency I have to want to be careless with my writing. To hurry, hurry, get it over with–out of my head–into reality. To be done with it. Then I can start on the really BIG idea. That one there.
The next idea is always the biggest. It is the best. The present work is what foils the writer, confuses her, bores her at times, causes her to agonize over words, phrases and scenes. “This story is like a curse,” I say, but cannot leave it alone.
Again with the haunting.
I want to be lazy. “Leave me alone,” I think. “Just leave me the hell alone.”
I’ll watch a movie, can only enjoy part of it, because the guilt about the work left waiting. It’s not work I have to do. No one is dictating that I do this as a profession. I earn no income from it. Instead there is an invisible finger pointing at me from some unknown universe, lightly scoffing, saying nothing. Just pointing. And I know… Yes, I know.