It is 9:57 AM my time. I have begun work at 9am today. Today was the day I was going to go through my 15 filled-out legal pads and 100 typed pages of notes from various blog posts, the past draft, etc. I was going to come to some sort of structuring of the thing. I told myself, 6 hours of work today on the thing. No working on production stuff for Green Girl past 9am, no Internet, emails, etc. No screwing around. I will be serious. I sat and looked at my notes for 45 minutes. Then I began watching Gossip Girl online and played the first round of Great Gatsby the video game, where you get points for gulping martinis and shooting cater-waiters and flappers.
Oh my god. My brain fucking hurts. I can't seem to concentrate or focus on this. I will do ANYTHING as opposed to focusing. Why can't I channel what makes me feel free? Why can't it be loose like it is here? I had an Herr Doktor once who said to me, confident with that sort of armchair assurance: Without a constant psychotropic cocktail Katie you'll always be spinning your wheels. This is the voice I internalize. I hate that I've internalized this voice and thrust it on my writing practice and my current lack-of discipline, even when I know I have days, weeks, months, years of productivity, I hate that I've internalized the psych voice, the authority voice, the law voice, and use it to swallow shame and guilt and a sense of vile taboo. I write this during blocked times in my journal, like some sort of spirit writing. You'll always be spinning your wheels Katie. SPINNING YOUR WHEELS SPINNING YOUR WHEELS.
I wish I had a more organized mind. My 9 months in grad school I endlessly, mindnumbingly mythologize, I was told repeatedly by my professors and the like that I had a "messy" mind or a "creative" mind (this I'm realizing is a euphemism.) Also an "abstract" mind. I suppose this is opposed to a "scholarly" mind or an "analytical" mind. The idea of organizing a book - of writing an outline - is so painful. Is so fucking painful. I already did it - twice - for this same book project, and each time my outlines were hilarious. They were a stream of thoughts that in my mind I felt connected but probably weren't really what an "outline" is supposed to be. So instead I just keep on writing more notes. More scraps and scraps of things. Like some tweaked-out Sibyl. I don't know why I cannot channel the former journalist in me. I feel I've set bonfire to the former journalist in me, she's been shipped to China along with my soul and former tape recorder. This is a badly done Anna Kavan reference.
I know, once I have some sort of entrance, then I will write. I have so much to write. But I cannot get any entrance. I think Henry James was wrong - it isn't the novel that's the baggy monster, it's the essay.