I can't stop writing...

October 2020

Writing Hero

I can’t stop writing.

My girlfriend begged me to, but she doesn’t understand. I’ve never had momentum like this before. Normally, it’s so hard to find time that when I finally sit down, I never have the energy to write. I used to wait for inspiration to strike, and it never did.

Not anymore though. Ever since I bought that old typewriter it’s like I’ve been jolted with lightning. There were some productivity tips I always ignored - “just find time”, “just write” and “try going analogue” being three of them. But you know what? They were right! I was making excuses. I wasn’t prioritising my life properly. I would waste so much time procrastinating or worrying. Social media - who cares? News - I can’t change any of it. Video games - why should I watch someone else’s bland stories when I could be sculpting my own?

And now that I’ve finally got it all figured out, now I’m finally making some actual progress... My girlfriend wants me to stop and “spend some time together.”

There’s a glimmer of truth behind that word - ‘spend’. Time is a resource and you have to spend it wisely. When I see the types of television shows she likes to watch, a few more words spring to mind. ‘Waste’. ‘Pointless’. ‘Drivel’.

So yes, she can moan all she likes. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

***

I can’t stop writing.

No, I really mean it.

I physically can’t stop my fingers. This is supposed to be a “break”.

For a while, I thought it was a good thing. A healthy thing. Like, I’m not mindlessly browsing facebook or instagram or whatever. I’m getting stuff done. That’s a good thing, right? I’m being productive and doing something I love. That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?

But I can’t stop. I’m not sleeping. I’m barely eating.

My girlfriend left me. My family and friends don’t visit. I think my dog is dead.

Oh god. My poor boy. I’m convinced his body is in my living room somewhere. I’m not sure. I haven’t actively looked but I tripped over something soft the other day and the smell is terrible. I don’t know how long it’s been. I forgot to feed him. I ignored his barks. I… killed my boy. You’d think that would make me stop, wouldn’t you? It makes me cry. It makes me sob so violently I can’t even see what I’m typing, but my fingers just keep tapping and tapping and I’m still here, not looking for my beautiful boy. Deep down in the bottom of my gut, I know he’s dead, so why bother confirming it?

That would be wasting time.

My eyes hurt. Christ, they sting. It’s not just the crying, it’s the constant staring at the screen. This room is pitch black. And the screen is so bright, but… I need to see the words. I need to feel them and know them and improve them. They can always be better. Always.

But I’ve wasted enough time. I’ll save this in draft and add more tomorrow.

***

A great day today. Hard to believe my personal best before all this was just four thousand words. Laughable. Today I knocked out over ten times that. My fingertips are still sore but I was really proud of one particular chapter. Just a shame the rest of the book was so poorly articulated. Several character arcs didn’t make sense and the finale was completely lacklustre. I ended up deleting the whole thing and starting again. The next one will be better of course. I just wish I could stop passing out. It’s so jarring. Sometimes it feels like the characters have moved on without me whilst I’ve been gone. Every time it happens I feel like I’d be better just starting over. It has to be perfect, after all.

I can’t remember why I started this post, and rereading what I’ve written just feels like a waste of time. My whole face aches quite badly, but I just want to jot down my new outline before I forget things. I’ll save this in draft for now.

***

I remembered why I started this post. It feels like I’m losing myself. Like all I am is the words, living through my characters. It’s horrible when I remember none of it is real. When the pain hits and my senses come back. I’m so hungry. And the smell. The smell of this apartment. The smell of me. How many days without a shower? How many times of relieving myself where I sit, over and over, however long it’s been? Days, weeks, years? Sometimes it feels like I only come back to life when my body needs something to physically keep itself alive. I just wish I could shut all my senses off. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to cry and wretch and have that empty cold feeling.

But that does give me an idea for a character motivation I’ve been struggling with.

***

It’s so much better writing on the typewriter. My eyes hurt less. It feels more natural. Going to do it more often.

***

New record today. Fifty thousand words.

***

PLEASE HELP ME. MY ADDRESS IS

***

Looks like in my last post I almost let slip my personal information for some reason. Stupid. Imagine if one of my fans got hold of it. Not that I have any yet, but once this book is finished, the series is bound to take off. It’s not ready for sharing yet but I know it’s going to be a masterpiece. The prose of Nabokov. The world building of Tolkien. The characters of - what I am doing? Why am I telling you this?? I could be writing!

***

I’m finding it harder and harder to pull myself away from my work.

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It’s like nothing else matters.

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How do I stop?

***

Awful. Awful. I had to burn every last page. It was just awful.

***

Who was I before this book? Was I even a real person?

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I can barely manage to

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I can barely

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Help

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Help

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Plea

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He

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H

***

H

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P


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[error code 54] [575]

[agents dispatched]

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