I counted the effing words. Why do I do this? It's NEVER where I want it to be. Never ever ever. And it sends me into a three-day spiral of impending doom, a lack of personal hygiene and hours-long internet job searches. It's when I start looking at postings for junior editorial jobs at Oilman Weekly that I give my head a shake.
But it takes much longer to actually get back on track. I counted words on Sunday and this morning I pressed snooze five times, hoping to fall into a wrinkle in the space-time continuum somewhere between the third and fourth snooze and never wake up. But that didn't happen and here I am. Facing the page.
Have I told you that when I get like this, Google becomes a sort of pagan god or oracle? Seriously. When I'm blender-drinked in the head, I will type my problems into Google. A few years ago, it was "Will I ever find love again?" Maudlin, I know. Now it's "Does anyone publish novellas or am I just f*cking fooling myself?"
My pilgrimages to the God of Google usually help. Although sometimes they open up little scary rabbit holes labeled Seven Hundred More Literary Journals To Add To Your Ever-Growing List. My Bookmarks folder is overflowing with lit magazines that I've told myself I can't even look at until I have a first draft of this book done.
And so. I'm off. Back to standing naked in front of the mirror.
Oh, P.S. Report on depressed teenager project. A second, unrelated person called me up and told me they thought of me for this project. So I must be meant to do it. I've been asked to audition for the job by writing one section on spec. Which section? Consciousness. I have to teach teenagers about consciousness. Maybe THAT'S why I was too scared to get out of bed this morning.
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