My goal all along was to have a first draft completed by the end of November. I really thought it was achievable. I mean, it is achievable. I'm at the end of the last chapter. I've been writing all day, and, aside from my shift tonight, I can write most of the evening as well. Realistically, I could finish before midnight. And how cool would that be? To complete an entire first draft of a manuscript in thirty days! Who would have thought?
Except, I'm at the end and I have no idea how to finish the story. I know where I'm going with it, but I can't see the last scene. My poor Jess, her life is stalled. She's heartbroken and there's no relief. I can't make anything better for her. Worse, I can't even end it with a tidy resolution. This isn't any writer's block, it's more an existential crisis. Because there is no such thing as a tidy resolution. Oh sure, it's fiction. It can be whatever I want. But that's not true of life, and my purpose in writing is to explore and try to find meaning. Only lately I'm pretty sure there's no meaning to any of it.
What's the point of writing this book? Of finishing? Am I doing anything with it? Am I doing anything of value by spending all this time and energy working through a story that will likely never be read by anyone other than me? Seriously. Look at my house. It's a fucking mess. My poor kids are playing unsupervised upstairs while I type away and the laundry pile is a mile high. I'm not even sure what's clean and what's dirty.
You know, I really think life is a lot like laundry. You wash, you dry, you fold and put away. Then you wear something and it's dirty again. The pile grows, you repeat your cleaning process. Dirty, clean, dirty, clean and never ending. It's never resolved. It's really trying, you know?
I get bummed out at the idea of the happy ending. And I really hate those optimistic people who think things work out. It's a bunch of shit, honestly. And that's not me being a pessimist. I think about my parents. (There she goes again...) My mom used to have all these dreams about houses. She'd buy a house, then, upon moving in, would find all these rooms she hadn't seen before. It would thrill her because she couldn't wait to decorate them. If that's not a metaphor, I don't know what is. The only thing is, she got sick and died really young. And what did she get to decorate? She left everything unfinished- all her dreams, her kids, her relationships- nothing resolved. And my dad. He worked his whole life. All he wanted to do was retire and play golf. So he retired and found that he needed surgery. Then another one. And then arthritis left him in so much pain he couldn't walk the aisles of the grocery store, much less play golf. Then he freaking got cancer and died. Can you tell me how these things worked out? Because I totally don't see it.
There are a lot of times when I lose my will to keep trying. I'm not talking about suicide, so stop rolling your eyes. I just mean I've always thought there was purpose, that there was some goal, that there was a reason *I* was here, and have soldiered on with that light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I'm wrong. Probably I'm wrong. And I hate how disheartening I feel realizing that. But maybe it's better not to expect anything. Maybe I'd be in a better place if I stopped thinking there was more and just accepted what is. Sigh.
Anyway, no one ever says they feel this way too, so I'm probably a depressed minority, but there it is. I wish I could say this rant made me feel better, but I'd be lying.
Listening to: Florence + The Machine "Hurricane Drunk" on repeat. Day 4.