Into the void...
“That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead.”
-Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
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2004-03-18
3:10 p.m.
I’ve reached a strange point with my novel. It seems that I’m nearing completion of my first draft (finally), but I can’t get any further until I finish the research. This part always takes the longest because I can’t really look like I have enough free time at work to be reading while I’m on the job. In the summer, and sometimes in the fall, it’s okay. But right now, people would freak out if they saw me not working.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’m doing more work than a lot of people in the office. I’m just more nervous about being in the office and not working. I get nervous about everything, so this isn’t much of a surprise, what with the anxiety disorder and all. But it’s annoying as all hell.
I made myself an agreement when I first starting writing the book. I told myself I wouldn’t leave the house without my book so it was always on my mind. I believe I’ve mentioned this before. The problem now is that the book has gotten too large to carry at the same time as the notes for the research. So, while I’m sitting here at work with a few moments in which to write, I don’t have the book with me for reference. Half my files are on my computer at home, so I can’t remember where I left off last with some of the characters because I have the memory from hell.
So. Here I am, wishing I could be writing the novel, knowing I could be spending this time more productively, and not being able to work on it because it’s too large to carry around. I guess I could really just bite the bullet and start carrying both around, but it seems kind of pointless. You have no idea how much stuff that is to be carrying around all the time. Besides, I should be able to remember a simple thing like where my characters went. Lately, though, I’ve been doing a lot of writing first thing in the morning, so, by the time I’m awake, I’ve forgotten what I wrote.
I have a meeting with Dennis Lehane tonight. I wanted to get together with him to talk about a couple of things having to do with my novel and my writing in general. The last time we got together, I could barely talk to him because I was so nervous. I arrived shaking and had to order a beer at the restaurant just so I could calm down a little. Now I’m nervous because he’s gone out of his way to arrange this meeting at a coffee shop instead of a bar.
Damn.
Did he arrange it at the coffee shop specifically so I couldn’t order alcohol before class? We are meeting immediately before our class time, so that would certainly make sense. But I don’t want that to be the case. I asked him if it was okay before I ordered the beer last time, and what the hell difference does one beer make, anyway? We’re all adults in the class. We’re all taking the class to better ourselves as human beings, so we should be able to show up at class drunk without a problem.
It’s our ass on the line, not his.
Of course, I imagine it’s possible he wanted to get together at the coffee shop because he wanted coffee. But that option wouldn’t give me anything to worry about. And that’s just not possible. There has to be something for me to worry about, even if I have to make it up. Otherwise, I would be confused. It wouldn’t be the way I know the world. There must be something to worry about.
Why the hell must I get so nervous about everything?
I swear to god, the last time we met, I showed up and had to sit there concentrating on breathing for a few seconds before I could talk at all. And then when I could talk, my mouth was all dry and I couldn’t concentrate enough to put a full thought together. I think I’m going to write up a list of items to talk about so I don’t forget my name and why I’m there tonight. I have a whole bunch of valid questions, but when I show up, I know I’m going to forget them all.
Damn this infernal disease.
And I think the most horrible thing about it is that I could take some of my drugs to calm me down a bit, but they tend to frazzle my brain even further. If I take too many at once, I can’t even think. It’s like my brain just slows down completely. It’s really hard to sound smart when your drugs are making you dumb.
