A Subtle Case of Misdirection

Today I drew some clams. I enjoyed drawing the clams - one is wearing a fez, another a fedora and smoking a Howard the Duck style stogie. Others are just clams, split open, their obscene tongues lolling, or sealed, like ridged loo seats. *I also drew a crab but got bored of the crab. Who gets bored of crabs? They're brilliant. 

But I did. There's only so many crabs and clams you can draw in the day, and there's only so much proper work to avoid. I've noticed that I'm struggling recently. In the foothills of a new project I find myself not liking the work I'm doing. This never happens. Normally I'm my loudest, bounciest cheerleader. Normally I thrill into writing, giddy with possibilities - a new idea and all the attendant new ideas it suggests. I'm running pell mell, eyes heart-shaped under the dazzling white lights. The horrific crash comes later when I actually have to make sense of it, you know, actually have to do the writing part. I make a clear distinction between that first rush and the subsequent emergency surgery: the first part is the idea. The second is writing, And writing is a bastard. 

Is it Covid brain? I'm aware that my interactions with other people have suffered from a lack of practice over the last year. I'm no longer used to talking, and sound like a rambling lunatic. My Zoom meetings are the stuff of legend. Can it be affecting my writing too? I sneered all the way through the pandemic at "creatives" who found they couldn't do any work because they couldn't meet people for a coffee. I prided myself on my discipline and self-sufficiency. I produced reams of work last year: short stories, plays, film scripts, a novel, an animated satirical cartoon. I even found time to write a blog, a podcast, do several paintings and make a record. Go team, John. 

And now I've hit a wall. Goat Songs was a struggle. Though I think the writing is good now, for a while I hated it. I just couldn't get anywhere with it. I threw out tons of stuff before I showed it to anyone. And then I threw out more. I cut and tore and ripped out. Maybe this is just rigorous process, maybe this is just what you're meant to do. And I am finally happy with Goat Songs. It has turned out to be far better than I could have hoped. 

And this is where I find myself with the new project: surrounded by research, writing tons of stuff that appalls me, material I will whittle and cajole and pamper and tickle and tear. And eventually it might be good. I'm putting the hours in. Putting the hours in drawing clams, that is. 

I might, finally, be on to something. We'll see tomorrow...

*It's for a magazine. I'm not just drawing clams. That'd be weird!