I had this vision of myself this evening. To put it simply, I was published and happy. Not exceedingly wealthy, but well off to the point that the second job was my only job. The vision faded quickly as did the urge to “completely finish the book tonight!” that it originally brought.
There are nights like tonight, when my head hurts and my stomach hurts and my eyes hurt and I’m just so tired, annoyed, generally irritated that I just can’t write dialogue. I just want to retreat from all human contact to the point that I don’t even want to hear the sounds of the fictional voices as I write them. I just want everyone to shut up for once.
That said, I need to write and I know I need to push through the pain and the fatigue to reach my goal, but it’s night when I’m pushing hardest that it becomes most difficult to write dialogue.
Normally, I love dialogue. The intercourse between two or even three characters can be and feel beautiful once it’s complete, but when I’m just not mentally “there” and I just don’t want to hear anyone, writing dialogue is the most painful process known to literature.
I wrote 396 words (throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder) tonight, which is great considering I wanted to stop at 7 words.
I think I’m just happy that something’s almost over; the night, the book, the diet, the life, whatever.