Falling leaves, tumbling acorns and dropping apples; all signs of autumn or something in the universe wants to bonk you in the head with dying vegetation. I like the latter explanation. It appeals to my twisted sense of humor.
Fall used to be my favorite time of year. Pumpkins, apples, fire-colored leaves, wienie roasts, hot apple cider, sweaters, hoodies, boots and a chilly snap overlaid with the scent of a wood fire. I still like those things but fall now reminds me that winter is just around the corner. Winter is an agonizingly long season to endure dull monochromatic landscapes, short cold days and long frigid nights. Soup only makes it marginally bearable. Kind of like my writing life right now.
Shakespeare penned, “Now is the winter of my discontent.” I think he was having a bad writing time, pushing through and enduring until the sap started to rise again and syrup could be boiled down into pure liquid amber, sweet on the tongue and nourishing to the senses.
Instead of the winter discontent thingie, which is pure writing genius I might add, he might have mentioned that words are coming about as easily as a heifer birthing a breech calf. The calf’s legs being chained and a 250-pound man pulling like his life depends on it to pull that baby out. Whoa!, whew and moo.
As far as writing on my novel, I am still in the ‘Whoa!, what have I done?’ phase. I may never get to the whew. Here is my dilemma: I want to quit. I can’t quit. I hate this story. I love this story. I’m sick of all the drama. This novel needs more drama. This book might be good but it is probably awful. Is the plot beginning to meander? Are these characters coming off insipid? Does the story lack, well, story? Where is that ending? Can an ending be nonexistent? Why am I doing this? Why do I have to be someone who never wants to give up? Why did I ever think this would work? Who am I kidding, I’m not a real writer. Who ARE these people yacking in my head and trying to get me to write it on a page?
Hold on heifer, this calf will eventually come in for a landing. Yea, I know, this is a mid-book crisis. Just as soon as I buy a red sports car, hook up with a cougar lover and get hair extensions the crisis will be over. See, I can be a writer. I just wrote myself out of a mid-book crisis.