Catching Up

I'm well past the point of feeling a bit guilty about not writing. The it's time stage came and went, followed by the no, it's really time, Dave, followed by a paralyzing sense of apathy and regret. I'd lapsed too long; too many thoughts had flown through my mind, begging to be set down, and what was I doing instead? Getting stoned with a few co-workers and listening to Johnny Cash on vinyl. Playing around on Insound. Damn my addiction to playing on the internet.
Speaking of addictions, and in case you didn't catch the multiple hints I just dropped, I've become entirely addicted to shopping for vinyl. The ol' turntable is out of the closet and equipped with a new stylus, counterweight, and pre-amp, and everything is running splendiferously. The difference in sound quality is staggering. I'm listening to Thom Yorke's The Eraser and cannot believe how much better it sounds than the measly mp3s I have on my lappy. I'm certainly no audiophile - I don't understand why it sounds like the band is in the room with me. But it does.
It was almost a week ago that, in a haze of word wars and novelist fuel, I wrote approximately 10,000 words over the weekend and found myself Caught Up on my wordcount for the first time since I began. It felt extremely satisfying. But now I'm finding myself a bit restless. Instead of having to throw myself into a frenzy just to reach my goal, I only have to write a little bit each day. It's not sexy. Not exciting. Also, the story seems to be nowhere near winding itself down, unless I pull a blatant deus ex machina and simply wrap it up with a few reductive sentences. No! No! Bad writer, no muffin.
I am reminded of Michael Douglas in the film Wonder Boys, when Katie Holmes (Boy, I never, ever, thought her name would wind up in my blog) gently critiques his latest work-in-progress, saying "You always encourage us to make choices in our writing. And while this is really, really, beautiful, it just feels like you didn't make any choices, Teach."
That's me. The end keeps getting further and further away because nothing is risked, and I'm not committing to my characters and binding myself to their actions and natures. Instead it's just kind of plodding along, not awful, but not terribly interesting either.
I guess it's not too important. I'll get to 50K, even if it is a drab, boring, and entirely unfinished mess by the time I get there.
I'm racking my brain to come up with a good list of things I'm thankful for, even if it is coming a few days too late. I think this kind of thinking is best done at night, to be honest.
I will get to it, and soon. And I will try to be better at writing when I have something to say, and not leaving it to pile up and accrete until I am more blocked than the grease trap at my work after two months' neglect. To steal from Wonder Boys again, I'm just a little sad these days.
Such is being alive.
Big big love, friends.