I’m 75% finished with my “Cherry Girls Flower Boys: Gloria + Tae” e-books. In fact, the end is so close, I can lick it with the tip of my tongue.

So too bad I’m re-doing the 40 pgs I’ve basically had a nervous breakdown in order to write.

She’s just not that into you

What can I say? I’m totaly not feeling Tae, the hero of the story.

There’s nothing technically wrong with him – especially in terms of pure hawtness. When I saw the below pictures, I was like, “homina homina, THIS IS TAE!”

So, the Tae in my story is eminently gorgeous. But, it seems that relying on only looks is insufficient, especially in fiction.

Booooooooring. Bland. Just…bleck

I have this theory: if I’m not madly in love with the hero, then the story is dead.

If I don’t want to throw my panties at him, then why should I put anyone else through the agony of reading about him?

I’m just not in love with Tae. He doesn’t move me. He doesn’t make me daydream about his voice, his smile.

If I’m not regressing back to being a teenage girl, then I gotta throw him away.

*sigh* this writing racket is squeezing my balls. If you know what I mean.

I spent all last week eating 5,000 calories a day. Self-gavage. All to avoid -- *gasp* finishing my Gloria+Tae story. 

And then today, I sent a series of self-pitying emails to a friend, filled with such pathetic-ness as: 

I’m a sham -- I can’t really write. If I continue, people will catch onto me.

People are doing me a favor, reading my stuff. 

My efforts are not good enough

And now, here I am -- almost 10pm. Overcome with an intense desire to anesthetize my anxiety with food…drama…household chores. Just anything that will delay the inevitable showdown with the blinking cursor on a blank Word document.

Time is a-tickin away…

Now the inner toughie in me is coming out. Swinging fists and singing Gwen Stefani’s “What You Waiting For”

Yea, what am I waiting for?
Take a chance you stupid ‘ho!

Writing a barely C- draft 

Seriously -- fuck this shit. 

Fuck this writer’s block and fuck this inability to just let go and let flow and fuck this paranoia and fuck this anxiety and fuck this ego trip and ego let down and fuck me for letting it chop my figurative balls off.

I just want to finish. It’ll be as disjointed and badly written as an episode of “True Blood” But -- what else do you expect from a girl whose literary education was refined on articles in back issues of Maxim Magazine?

Set it. And FORGET IT. 

Write it all tonight. Crank it out like the world will end in some bloody Aztec human sacrifice unless the draft is done by tomorrow morning.

Then start something new. 

Sounds like a plan to me.

Argh. Why is it so hard to write 4 pgs a day?

I mean, it’s just 4 fucking pages. It’s not like I’m trying to whip together 20 pgs in one night. And yet, those goddamn 4 pages is as fun as waterboarding myself. It’s like making little papercuts inbetween my finger and toes, and dunking them in a fizzy hydrogen peroxide solution.

There’s a lot riding on my writing. We’re talking (uh huh) money. It’s not just about stroking my ego – it’s about paying my rent and student loans and maybe eating something other than $1 dumplings. And this is just…too real. It’s like meeting the perfect 10 girl and realizing that she has to take a shit like everyone else, too.

And it sucks, because I have to invest all this time and energy and faith in something that I don’t even know will pan out. It’s a risk, a gamble that is dispassionate. Unlike people, who can be manipulated – churning out a certain wordcount is a science. You can’t magically will an extra 1,000 words. You do it or you don’t.

I’m supposed to be done with the “Gloria + Tae” story. But I’m not. I feel like an utter failure.

So tonight I write like a fiend. If I have to stare at my screen yet again, I will. Fuck fuck fuck.

What the hell people!

Here I am, trying to write romantic erotica. Y’know, the stuff with sex AND love and rainbows and happily-ever-after. I love to read it – so lemme try to write it. But I keep running into an “oh-my-god-this-is-so-embarassing-and-lame” wall of inner resistance.

Writing the sex is fine. But writing the romance is…oi vey.

Romance is like that scene from Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle…

And they start rockin’ out to Wilson Philips.

And c’mon – haven’t we all done it? In the privacy of our own vehicles? (If you say “no” then you’re SUCH A LIAR!) I mean, that song is pretty damn uplifting. But as soon as you’re in the car with other people, this song suddenly becomes everyone’s favorite punchline.

Same with romance.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m so disconnected from my emotions that even a fictional account of love seems saccharine-yucky.

But I have a sense that there are a gazillion other young women writers who can’t really get it up (emotionally) either.

Think about it: if your friend starts gushing about a new l’amour, it’s kinda “woa, chill out, hun.” But if she starts saying, “my bf is schtuping my best friend!” then everyone gives her a hug and comaraderie.

Gush = she’s out of touch
Disillusionment = ah, glorious reality.

I would like to say that I’m immune to such wiggety-wack judgements, but I’ve definitely noticed that I’m far more comfortable detailing obsession, murder, Nazi-activity and brains blowing up.

But talking about two people falling in love? I have to admit that it kinda ruins my street cred. Any sort of intellectual or artistic respect is instantly gone.

Listen, I think “The Notebook” sucks too. And I hate chick flicks (except Legally Blonde and Clueless, which have transcended the genre…but I digress). I would rather read Chuck Palahniuk (author of “Fight Club”) than Danielle Steele.

But surely, those with a more gritty aesthetic can appreciate sexy romance! Right?! So why am I running like a crazy hamster in this “worried-about-being-lame” wheel?

Obviously, I have issues.

What Does Modern Romance Look Like?

Why do I feel like most modern literature is one long mural of people feeling all disconnected from each other?

I do have this unofficial stance that rappers are the Walt Whitman of the new century. But love songs are thin. I’m thinking of 50 cent rapping “I love you like a fat kid loves cake.”A gangsta expressin’ his bullet-ridden heart the best he can.

Um…so that’s it? Rappers can spit fiery poetry about their isolation, their betrayals, their identity crisis. About video ‘hos and girls with too much junk in their trunk and gold diggers.

But it’s a macho world. Maybe not a great place to look for modern love. Too bad.

So where can I go to find strong, more “feminine” ideals of love?

Not a rapper, but there is Beyonce.

She writes fierce lyrics about what romance is like for modern women, without the (sorry white people) dumb, Barbie WASP-Y overtones. I mean, she’s gyrating in a a bodysuit with fabulously teased hair, holding up her hand and saying: if you like it, then you should have put on a ring on it.

Yea, but is that really romance?

Oh shit, now I have to DEFINE romance?

How did this post, which started off as a rant, suddenly become so frickin’ complicated? I seriously just want to cop out and eat some pretzels.

But as we are all somehow here…let’s figure out what romance is.

…

Eh…???

Hmm…??

Ah, so maybe part of the problem is – what the hell is romance anyways?

And instantly, for whatever reason, I thought of Mount Sims’ electroclash song “Escape Hatch.”

And I feel incredibly moved by the lyrics:

And the makeup runs
Advertisement run
Automobiles they run
Metropolis it runs faster than it ever has

I want to escape with you
Under the naked glass
Disappear in your room
Look what the future has

Let’s blast off this afternoon
Love’s an escape hatch

Maybe this is where to start writing romance. What I want to write about is not an archaic, WASP-Y version of chivalrous love. It is hidden in the veins of our lives, disguised by machines and marketing gurus and wikipedia entries. Romance may even extend to having sex with your car (don’t we all know guys who spoil their metal+piston lovers?).

Point is – romance as it is widely marketed today isn’t OFFICIAL ROMANCE. I don’t have to write it that way. Neither does anyone else.

Alrighty. Until I figure out how to end posts more gracefully, I will say peace out…

Ok, I’m done feeling sorry for myself.  My therapist can seriously fuck herself – I’m NOT hopeless!

So today, on Twitter, @Bodhipaksa put up a link to this amazing NY Times article about the science of concentration. And considering that my problem isn’t so much creative block as it is ability to put ass-to-seat-and-jes-do-it – maybe practical, simple neurobiological science is the key…

90-min increments, meditations and earplugs…

The article says:

“[Start] your work day concentrating on your most important task for 90 minutes. At that point your prefrontal cortex probably needs a rest…before focusing again.”

Ok, so 90-min increments sounds fucking long. Usually, I do tasks for barely 15-minutes before I get antsy and change gears. But this is not so hot, because:

“…Don’t get distracted by anything else, because it can take the brain 20 minutes to do the equivalent of rebooting after an interruption.”

Oh shiiiiiit. That explains a lot. I don’t give myself enough time to get into the groove of things.

Then the article goes on to also recommend meditation and blocking out sounds through earplugs, ”building your own ‘stimulus shelter.’”

New plan, people…

So – here is a new plan. I’m gonna train myself to be a laser-beam of a human.

I went from utter comatose vegetable walking 3 miles everyday (and LOVING IT, thank you very much). So I can do this. I know I can. Because for all my annoying-ness, one thing for sure: if someone says I can’t, then I do just to be a spiteful bitch.

Maybe that therapist purposefully jabbed my heart. ‘Cause she knew I’d get riled up…

So, a therapist tells me just now: “I can’t help you.”

Turns out that I am so mentally fucked that even a professional will readily admit that she’s no match for my demons.

“You can talk your way around anything,” she told me. “You can analyze and rationalize and build cases for anything. But you won’t get to the heart of your issues.”

Basically, she said that I have a deep “FUCK YOU” syndrome.

FUCK YOU, I am NOT going to get better.

FUCK YOU, no one was there for me when I needed help, so I’m gonna stay pathetic to spite you, muthafuckers.

FUCK YOU, I’m gonna drink this poison and hope you suffer as you watch me a die a wretched death.

Jesus, do you know how much it sucks to hear a venerable therapist tell you, “I can’t help you. I’m not even sure you can help yourself.”

I’m weeping, crying, filled with deep self-loathing and discouragement. I want so badly to be happy and free. I want these demons exorcised out of me.

The therapist did suggest, “well, you’ve tried more intellectual approaches to therapy. They don’t work. Maybe you should try something radically different now. Try body work. How about rolfing?”

She thinks I was fucked up from such a young age, that only body work can access this pre-verbal level.

On one hand, I feel hopeful. Maybe this will help me gain peace.

Then again, I am also creating the safety net to fall on in case I remain (yet again) a hopeless case.

P.S. I just looked in my cell phone and realized that there is no one I can really call and talk to about this. It truly is 100% me.

Student: How do you eat an elephant?
Teacher: One bite at a time.

Writer: How do you deal with 3-ton-o-shit writer’s block?
God: (silence)

Thanks for nothing, God.
Thanks for nothing, God.

What is 3-ton-o-shit Writer’s Block?

It’s that not-so-fresh feeling of a writer who can’t seem to write, despite tons of ideas.

Some writers stare at a blank screen with a blank brain.
But me, I stare at the blank screen with an overloaded brain.

I wanna write. I really do. Everyday, the ideas keep on coming and piling onto the previous day’s ideas.

Then the previous week’s ideas.

Then month.

Etc., etc. and so forth.

Now there’s a nutty taste in my mouth and a heaviness in my gut. I sit on my chair, waiting for the ideas to drop.

And sometimes, it pokes its head out – only to jump back inside again.

I am soooo backed-up, it’s ridonkulous.
I am soooo backed-up, it’s ridonkulous.

And the Experts Say…

People have offered me many suggestions on how to get over this 3-ton-o-shit writer’s block.

There is the “get on with it” camp, who basically say: “you just put ass on seat and you sit there until you get (x) word count. No ifs-and-or-BUTS.”

Then there is the “feed your creativity” camp: “read an inspiring book. Look at nature. Make friends with ladybugs. I hear that the latest (artsy movie) has scintillating dialogue.”

Yea, well maybe I’ve tried all the above. And I still have the 3-ton-o-shit writer’s block. So now what?

(silence)
(silence)

Insane in the Membrane

Thing is, the 3-ton-o-shit writer’s block has a momentum that only 3-tons of anything can have. It might as well be a fucking meteorite that somehow crashed into my body.

It’s like a parasite worm, feeding off my blood. It gets plump and juicy and start to grow bigger and bigger. The little sips of blood turn into mouthfuls and then gulps.

Soon, I’ll be walking around looking like a shriveled Egyptian mummy. People, pray for me!
there isn’t any energy left for much else.

Bloggers Can Kiss My Backed-Up Ass

Ew, disturbing image.

But seriously – people who are writing blog entries, essays, and other non-fiction bits can all stop trying to give me advice on how to shit out my stories.

I write fiction. It’s a whole different animal.

Look, I’m writing this blog entry. It’s a fucking joke, how easy it is to write this, compared to fiction or especially poetry.

In non-fiction, you tell it like it is. You aim for clarity.

In fiction, you add nuances. You aim for clarity by obscuring the truth. You mask the image with gossamer words, so that it looks more like itself than itself.

Basically, fiction makes bullshit into roses.

I’m just looking for magic.
Pure and simple.