Agnes Saves Madeleine from Despair

Yesterday I was feeling pretty low.

I was feeling ill; I was tired; my job was making me very angry; I had not written Story #1 the night before, and the deadline was looming; I was stuck in the middle of a paragraph that I could not finish; I could not look at Story #1 anymore, because the more I looked at it, the more confused I was getting; I had hoped to write at work, but that was, of course, impossible; the deadline was looming; I looked up an older story that I sort-of finished in August and thought that I would be forced to workshop that one in my class even though I did not want to; I did not like the older story, when I read it, as much as I thought I did; I started wondering, again, why I always find myself in this position, i.e., working on a story but never finishing it; the deadline was LOOMING; (ASIDE: My boss, as I write this entry, is in the middle of a fight with her 21-year-old son on the telephone. This happens ALL THE TIME. I have already spoken to her about it. She likes to call him Shithead.); I started wondering, again, if I would ever finish anything EVER; I was late to my class because of a work snafu—by work snafu I mean that my incompetent boss (see above) made careless mistakes AGAIN, which is not surprising since she does not know basic grammar and is unable to write a sentence (this is not a joke, unfortunately); when I got to class, they were discussing a Leonard Michaels story that I forgot to read; when we workshopped the stories, I was completely out of sync with my classmates and our leader, i.e., they simply loved a story that I could barely get through; this led me to think: these people are going to HATE my story—and it’s not even going to be finished.

I dragged myself home.

On the way home, I called Agnes. She was in a good mood and happy to hear from me. When I got to the subway entrance, I said I would call her if she wanted me to when I got home. She said, cheerfully, that she didn’t want me to.

(ASIDE #2: 98% of Madeleine’s and Agnes’s fights are about the phone. Agnes doesn’t like to talk on the phone EVER. She didn’t like to talk on the phone when they lived in the same apartment, and she doesn’t like to talk on the phone now that they spend most of their time apart. She doesn’t like to talk on the phone to ANYONE. Madeleine, on the other hand, likes to talk to Agnes on the phone 30 times a day. Sometimes Madeleine will call Agnes because she has something important to tell her (i.e., developments in the lawsuit, train schedules, etc.), and sometimes Madeleine will call Agnes for no reason at all (i.e., she is bored, she wants to hear Agnes’s voice, something happened and she wants to share it with Agnes), and sometimes Madeleine will call Agnes to complain about something or even to take out her frustrations on Agnes. Sorry, Agnes! Madeleine understands why Agnes doesn’t like to talk to other people on the phone—afterall, Madeleine only enjoys talking to one other person on the phone, i.e., our Dear Reader—but why Agnes doesn’t like to talk to Madeleine on the phone—that is much harder for Madeleine to understand, though she is trying. Sometimes Agnes will be doing something, focusing on work or some project, and she will simply forget to call Madeleine. Madeleine admires these feats of concentration; she wishes she could stay focused on projects the way that Agnes does, but Madeleine simply doesn’t understand how Agnes could forget to call her, especially only once a day—especially since Madeleine feels like she thinks about Agnes all the time—and sometimes Madeleine takes this personally, which is when Madeleine and Agnes fight.)

I had to wait a long time for the subway. This gave me more time to think bad thoughts about myself—and also to wonder why Agnes didn’t want me to call her. (See above.) I didn’t get too upset with Agnes this time, though, because I was trying to focus all of my anger on myself.

When I got home, I told myself not to call Agnes, and then I called Agnes. She answered! I told her I was feeling low, that I felt lost, that I simply couldn’t get through the new dreaded paragraph. She asked me what I meant by that. I said that I had sentences, I had details, I knew what was supposed to happen, but I couldn’t get all that information into the correct order, i.e., an order that made sense to me, and onto the page. She said, talk me through it. I said, no. She said, maybe if you talk through it, it will be clearer in your own head. I said, no. She said, try it. I talked it through with Agnes, several times, and Agnes said, see, it’s not so bad. You can do it! You can do it, Madeleine, she said, I know you can.

And I believed her. And I STILL believe her this afternoon, even though I am at work and I am still in the middle of the dreaded paragraph.

So thank you, Agnes. You should use your phone skills more often.

Madeleine Even MORE Frightened

I am stuck on one paragraph again. Now THIS is the most important paragraph in Story #1. I thought the dreaded paragraph of a month ago was the most important paragraph in the story--and by most important I mean most difficult paragraph to write--but no, it's this one, the one I am in the middle of right now.

If I could just write this one paragraph, then the whole section and thus the whole story would fall into place.

Why didn't I finish this story last week? Why aren't I revising now?

(I don't work that way, obviously.)

My first impulse is to call it a night--I'm too tired, I'm not thinking clearly enough, I'm in the middle of it and I need to step back--but that's what I did last night, and here I am again.

I'm not panicking, but I am very uncomfortable. Ert.

Story #2 looks like paradise right now, heaven. I can't wait until I'm writing Story #2. It is going to be so much easier to write than Story #1, and, anyway, I won't let it come to this...

Prepare for disappointment, readers!

Inside Madeleine's Head, a Play

Last night in bed, or it might have been this morning, I started rethinking what would be acceptable for me to turn in to my class on Friday as Story #1.

I present to you: Inside Madeleine's Head, a play in agonized silence

MADELEINE on bed, awake. AGNES is next to her, blissfully asleep, completely unaware of the turmoil going on inside her beloved's head, which is only ten inches from her own.

MADELEINE does not speak, but from her anxious expression and clenched jaw, it is clear that she is thinking about something unpleasant--for example: bad choices she has made, promises she has failed to keep, expectations she never manages to meet, etc. She is under a lot of pressure! Perhaps her back is aching again; she went to the chiropractor twice this week for neck pain. (Note to actress portraying MADELEINE: This pain is unusual; prior to this week, MADELEINE had not been to a chiropractor in four years.)

MADELEINE (thinking)
I really want to finish Story #1, but time is running out and perhaps it would be okay for me to hand in only the first two sections of it, as long as I make those first two sections as good as they can possibly be. That would be pretty amazing, actually! The first two sections are really difficult to write, so if I finish them and am happy with them, etc., then turning them in on Friday and finishing the complete draft shortly thereafter would certainly be ok, even admirable. And, really, the first two sections don't need to be the best that they can be--they just need to be finished. As long as I finish the first two sections by Friday evening and turn them into the class then I will have no reason to feel ashamed of myself and my efforts, especially since if I finish the first two sections by Friday, then I will certainly be able to finish the rest of the story in no time, probably in only a few days--at the most a few days--because I know that once I am finished with the first two sections, I am going to feel like, wow, the story is basically done, all I have left is the silly third section, and the silly third section won't be so difficult to write compared to the first two sections, which were extremely difficult to write.

When Agnes is awake, I have to tell her again about how very difficult the first two sections of my story are to write. Because if Agnes knows how difficult they are to write she will judge me less harshly on Friday when I don't finish Story #1.

MADELEINE looks at AGNES. AGNES sleeps.

Dear Agnes understands me and she will still love me if I hand in only the first two sections of Story #1 on Friday, so...

MADELEINE realizes she has pulled all of the covers to her side of the bed. She replaces them over AGNES, carefully so as not to wake her. Note to actress portraying AGNES: You remain completely still during the play, but at this moment, it is clear that you feel very lucky to have MADELEINE in your life, despite all of her craziness and the frenzy which you sense is fast approaching.

Suddenly, MADELEINE sits up. She looks frightened. She has just remembered something awful.

But those blog readers! They are counting on you! They are invested in your success! They are waiting and reading to see if you will finish Story #1 by Friday--and in fact they expect you NOT to finish it! They will judge you harshly! They will stop reading if you don't finish Story #1 on Friday. Why would they keep reading after you had betrayed them? Unless they are readers who like to watch a car crash. Who doesn't like to watch a car crash? Perhaps you will have MORE readers if you fail to finish a complete draft of Story #1 by Friday. No one will read this blog if I meet my goal. What's so interesting about someone who meets all her goals? What's so interesting about a successful, happy person? Where's the drama in that?

Perhaps, Madeleine, you are invested in failure? Perhaps, Madeleine, you are more comfortable when you do NOT meet your goals?

MADELEINE lies down on the bed.

Is it "lies" down on the bed or is it "lays" down on the bed? How can I NOT know such a simple thing? I'll choose "lies" but no doubt I have chosen wrong. I always make bad choices. I never get anything right. I must avoid this verb, this saying, in the future. I must...

MADELEINE's thoughts become too confusing, even to her, as all the things she must avoid start pressing down on her from above and the unseen deadline presses up on her from below. She is frightened. Very frightened.

END OF PLAY

Madeleine Looks Around

...and compares herself to other people--other writers, mostly--and feels like a loser.

Stop looking around, Madeleine, and stop comparing yourself to other people! (I know this, but sometimes I can't help myself.)

Maybe I am preparing myself for disappointment next week when I don't meet the deadline and I don't finish Story #1?

If I don't finish it, one reason will be so that I can wallow around in my misery and feel bad about myself, a comfortable position for me.

No writing last night.

Madeleine Equivocates No More

As I noted in my last post regarding Story #1, I had entered the phase in my writing process when I start thinking that I should not be writing a short story at all and that I should be writing a play instead.

One of the reasons I do this is because it is scary for me (and, probably, for most people) to commit to any piece of writing. By "commit" I mean finish, of course, but I also mean make the decisions/artistic choices that are going to form/define that story. It's sort of the there's-no-going-back-now moment; after this point, that story is what it is going to be.

I feel like I am explaining this both too much and not enough at the same time.

The point is I am not equivocating anymore. I'm writing the story and I'm ready to finish it.

I had a very good writing day on Friday after writing my last post. Perhaps writing that post helped me to move on and stop equivocating.

I don't really have anything else to say. I am relaxed and feeling good after a nice weekend with Agnes. More evidence that happiness does not provide much material for me to write about...

I wrote last night (and Saturday and Friday).

Madeleine Avoids, Evades, Equivocates

I couldn't decide on the best, most appropriate word to describe what I am doing now--avoiding, evading, equivocating--so I used all three. They all mean the same thing, I know, but not quite.

Anyway that's what I am doing now.

This is a familiar phase in my process, especially when I have a definite deadline.

My definite deadline (for the class) is October 29.

As soon as I have a deadline, I go from thinking I need to finish this story NOW, ASAP, etc., to oh, I have so much time before the deadline! That deadline is so far away! I have so much time to finish this story! I don't need to do it now, I can do it later; I'll think about it now, but I'll write it later, because I have plenty of time before the deadline.

Why do I do this? If anyone has an answer--or a solution--please comment.

Then, a few days after the deadline has been set, and luxuriating in all of the time that I have before the deadline, I decide that I should write something else first. Another story, maybe, a short one that I can just toss off. (I have never "tossed off" any piece of writing in my life. These blog entries are the closest I've ever come to "tossing" something off, but I often go back and edit them later. I have to go back and edit my last post, actually, because, according to Tricia, Mies van der Rohe said "turn a corner" not "turn the corner". Agnes confirmed it last night.) More likely, though, I decide that it is time to write a play. Writing a play would be so much fun right now in this long time before my deadline. Writing plays is easy compared to writing stories. I want to use my playwriting muscles. Actually, I really want to write plays. I should be writing plays. I ALWAYS like writing plays. Why am I writing stories again? Plays are the thing.

Time passes. NOTHING is written. No plays, no stories, though I think about writing them all the time. I read through old story ideas to find the one that I will finally "toss off." I read through dialogue I have written and try to imagine the play it could become.

So that's where I am. Next comes frenzy (next weekend, i.e., the weekend before the deadline) then guilt and finally disappointment.

I am going to try to preempt, head off, thwart those last three phases this time. (Though I'm pretty sure I said that the last time, too.)

No writing last night.

Also, Agnes's last post was lovely I thought. As lovely as Agnes.

Agnes Electronic Picaresque

As what follows will be distinctly biographical, I thought I would begin on an abstract note. The time contained in a blog is extraordinarily contingent, in part because it appears to have such a transparent structure. I leave out very significant parts of my life here; there are things which happen which are germane, which would probably be interesting to the reader, and which I do not write about. There is also a lot of boring things I leave out, best for everybody. Sometimes things aren't in the correct order. Sometimes things are heightened. If my readers are writers I am sure this will seem to be something of a non-observation, but it is something that has always irritated me in biographies: the narrative arc that inscribes itself onto an (unwilling?) life. Ouisa Kittredge would insist that our lives are more than just a collection of anecdotes, but I'm not so sure.

Last night I smoked. I had had a long day of doing things like look for papers. Are the papers in my bag? No, but there are some bills and a bank statement in there which need to be filed, and there is also an extra handout from class which hasn't been hole-punched and put into a binder. Are the papers in my desk drawer? No, but there are a bunch of receipts in there which need to be flattened out and organized roughly by size and then filed into the Receipts folder in my file drawer—not forgetting to tear off the little coupons at the bottom of the IKEA receipts which are as good as free money and which can go toward the purchase of the handsoap which is one of the things that I need to get next time I go there and which I made a note of on my shopping list on my iphone.

So there was that. Then we had our usual, tedious, departmental meeting at which we were scolded. This was on top of the lecture (part of a series) put on by our Dean, a well-known figure in the art world who does not have a graduate degree. That in itself is no bad thing, but every time he addresses us MFA candidates, everyone gets the feeling that we are being chastised. Not nice. Maybe a nun would be happy with this compounded emotional moment, but I was not. Then we have a critique that runs overtime. In between the meeting and the crit I had somehow managed to make an appointment to have a studio visit with a painter in between the crit and the movie screening series which I am organizing. (As an aside, I feel like all of this paints an inaccurate picture of me as someone who is ambitious and full of action. I want to be clear that it is the no-smoking talking here.)

I go to the painting building, and suddenly everything is really relaxed. My friend is hanging out in the common area chatting with some of the new kids, and we introduce ourselves and joke around. Eventually we wander over to her studio and chat some more and decide we need to have a drink. I tell her I've quit smoking. She says that it is “way too hard to quit in grad school.” And I think to myself—you know, woman, you're right, and as we walk to the bar I bum one. It's an ultra-light. I think I might like it, but I'm not quite sure. We have a beer and then I run off to the liquor store to get a six pack for the screening and then jog across the street to buy a pack of real cigarettes for myself. This I like. It makes me feel like I don't have to be nervous around other people if I can be drinking and thinking about cigarettes and also smoking them.

After the screening (Juliet of the Spirits and Maxi Cohen's Anger,) we are having a discussion with one of the faculty members who stays over on Wednesday nights, and all I can think of is when can I leave to have a cigarette, and how I will need to go out and buy more cigarettes because I had handed so may of them out already. Madeleine calls, and I use this as an excuse to leave. I head out to buy cigarettes, and Madeleine says, “I thought you were going to tell me you were going to the gas station.” To which I replied: I am going to the gas station. Madeleine: very disappointed. Conversation ends diffidently (on my part). Madeleine calls an hour later to say that she doesn't want to pressure me, and that perhaps my friend was right after all: perhaps it is too difficult to quit in grad school. I was happy with this call. All's well that ends well etc., etc.

I felt rather differently about the whole thing this morning. What I did not feel was bad. This is very unusual for me: one of the things that I tell myself to help me through cravings is that later I am always glad when I don't smoke. More immediately are the niggling feelings of guilt and disgust that follow a “fall”. What I realized this time, however, was that most of the times when I start smoking again, I do it for no better reason than that I'm bored. This seems like a big thing to know, esepecially because it is such a small thing that mostly goes completely under my radar. I can't remember ever saying to myself: I am bored now. I think I usually classify it as “restlessness,” but it is clearly not the same thing. I'm not quite sure why it is that smoking itself doesn't get boring—maybe it's because it so effectively turns off my awareness.

Anyhow, I've decided to continue the quit, and I have some new projects. First, I need to develop a more intimate connection with my own boredom. Second, I need to figure out some way to get some kind of repose from my non-smoking-induced mania. And finally, I need to work on understanding that smoking does not help me in social situations; I feel anxious in social situations and that anxiety is independent of smoking which only distracts me from the anxiety.

I said that this post was going to be very biographical, and it has been. I am annoyed that my part of this blog is the “recovering from substance abuse” part—a part that I loathe. It is a narrative that absolutely everybody already knows, and there are only three predetermined outcomes: substance is overcome enabling new-found joy in living, substance is not overcome thus despair, substance continues to exert an on-again, off-again pull dragging out the cycle of triumph, stolidity, indulgence and ashen regret. Oh how one wishes one could be above it!

Can Madeleine Turn the Corner?

A few weeks ago, we went to see Philip Johnson's Glass House. Actually I took Agnes for her birthday. We took a tour of the house(s) and the property. The glass house and the property were pretty amazing, but the rest of it not so much. The other buildings were not buildings that I wanted to be inside--that is to say that the minute I stepped inside them I wanted to be outside them. And the way he displayed his art... But all of that is for some other blog.

I want to talk about our tour guide, Tricia, sometimes Trish, who was wonderful and knowledgeable and clearly did not have such a high opinion of Philip Johnson. Agnes and I spent the tour and after wondering about Tricia's life: She's British; what is she doing here in the middle of Connecticut? She is SO brilliant and enjoyable; why is she giving tours at the Philip Johnson house, especially since she doesn't seem to like the man? Is she married? Kids? Lesbian? Isabelle Huppert could play her in the movie, no, Jane Lynch.

Anyway, at some point she told a story about Mies van der Rohe visiting Philip Johnson in the Glass House for the first time. The evening was going fine but ended badly when Mies looked at the corner of the house and said to PJ, "You never could turn the corner." (And it's true; the corners of the Glass House ain't pretty.)

I have been thinking about this quote a lot lately in terms of my writing. (Agnes is sick of hearing about it, I'm sure. And maybe it's a dumb analogy, but I'm going with it.) For me and maybe for most people the difficulty in writing a story is getting it to feel seamless and unexpected at the same time. And, specifically, right now with Story #1, which is a long story that starts in one place and ends up somewhere completely different, I find that I'm always trying to turn the corner, trying to make it from one section to the next without having the entire story fall apart. If i miss a turn...okay, I need to turn the corner on THIS...

I was with it for awhile there but now I've lost whatever it is that I was trying to say. Maybe that's the best illustration of what I was trying to say.

My point is that after being so convinced of the movement of this story, the plot, the path, whatever, for a very long time, last night I suddenly had lots of doubts. Maybe because I have to finish it soon, I don't know, but the whole thing seems so improbable and dumb.

I don't know... Was this a silly entry? Was Agnes's better today? Probably. (FYI: those are doubts, readers. Another illustration.)

But I'm so glad Agnes is back if only to give you all something decent to read. To give ME something decent to read. And for another way to communicate with her. Call me, Agnes.

I wrote last night. And tonight, too, I hope.

Agnes' Novelty Veneer: Wearing Thin

I suppose I should now respond to reader comments; it is a pleasure I never expected to have. (Perhaps one day I shall win the Nobel Peace Prize.) Thank you for posting, SS. It was a very nice surprise to have such a thoughtful and flattering response (the Prettiest Girl of All Time? Moi?) I suspect Vinegar Tom might say that you would have better spent the time it took you to write cleaning your place. I would disagree.

I seem to be disagreeable in general, lately. This has been day 5. That means that all of the nicotine has left my body, and I am technically beyond the process of physical withdrawal. Obviously, physical withdrawal is not the hard part. I told a friend of mine that I had quit smoking via email, and he sent me a joking reply that I could use all of that extra money to buy junk food. Ha ha. I have consumed an entire bag of Gardetto's Snak-Ens as well as the better part of a halloween bag of miniature Kit-Kats over the course of the past two days, however, and I can't say that it's all that becoming of me to do it.

I've been feeling restless. I've been feeling afflicted with ADHD. I can't stop writing in short sentences (maybe I am the one who's aphasic.) This is one of the things that happens to me: I start to feel really stupid. I was in class today, and I thought: I am completely out of my league right now, I have no idea what everyone is talking about. Granted, the topic was Spinoza, but still.

Agnes: Killer Robot

No smoking yesterday. Or the day before. Had some close calls. Now I am just intensely aggressive and irritated by everything. The good news is that I did my laundry. Then I made my bed. Then I cleaned my kitchen at home. Then I came to the studio and swept the floor. Then I tidied up. Then I washed the floor. Then I cleaned the kitchen in my studio. Then I did my filing. Then I 3-hole punched all of the papers I've gotten for my two classes this semester and put them into 3-ring binders. Then I rode my bike home and got into bed, where, unable to sleep, I skimmed through an advance copy of New York Times writer Benoit Denizet-Lewis' book American Voyeur. It is surprisingly bad. The good news is that he looks really butch so nobody thinks he's a homo (apparently).

Happy to be away from Madeleine; she does not deserve to be directly subjected to the powerhosing my life tends to get whenever I quit. Also, the lack of affect. We'll get to that eventually. I did force her to walk from Brooklyn to Grand Central Station, though. She probably needed the exercise anyway. I haven't had the heart to read her post yet. Perhaps it is filled with recrimination? We can only hope...

My best to everyone.

Madeleine Gets Motivated (Again)

I can't believe it has been seven days since I posted on the Mildred. But last week was not the best week for me--I felt crazy, useless, trapped, etc. etc., for various reasons: tensions between Agnes and me (she alluded to this in her post); noise in the middle of the night from the apartment below (I think video games hooked up to massive speakers positioned underneath my bed); hatred of work and each and every one of my colleagues; and as always my unresolved lawsuit (over our apartment) hovering behind all of it. And, yes, no writing accomplished and, hence, FAILURE!

Are there people who can separate what is going on in their lives from their writing? I think there are, and there are certainly people who can funnel their daily struggles, feelings, fights, and the rest of it into their writing--writers who can "use" all of it and get things done. Why aren't I one of these writers? I always conclude that I am not trying hard enough, but maybe that's NOT the reason. (I know that's not the reason). Or maybe all those writers who say they can do that are lying.

But this week will be different! I made lists of things I need to do--lists always help me focus--and I am out early this morning and writing this post. I had a wonderful weekend with Agnes, and I am so pleased that she has quit smoking again and has returned to the Mildred. It motivates me in so many ways. (And if anyone out there needs Agnes to clean an apartment or workspace or organize anything, ask her now. She loves to clean things when she quits smoking.) My first class was last week and I enjoyed it and more importantly I have a definite deadline now: October 28th. Story #1 must be completed by then; of course, I plan on finishing it sooner than that. I was thinking about Story #1 last night and getting excited about it again. (By Friday, after wallowing in all of the above for several days, needless to say, I HATED Story #1.) And I must say that I was so happy to read a comment on the Mildred last week from someone NOT our dear reader. Nothing against our dear reader, mind you, he's wonderful, but it was a thoughtful, inspiring comment from a reader I don't know, and it made me feel not so alone in my struggles, which is always a nice thing.

No writing last night, though, as I said, I did think about Story #1.

The Return of Agnes: Agnes vs. King Kong

I am beginning the struggle again. It's rather early, for me, on Saturday October 10. Madeleine is still in bed. I had unkindly not told her that I wasn't smoking yesterday, and she took my resulting lack of affect personally. This was unreasonable as she knew that I'd lost all my linens to the wind the previous night—theater people invaded my studio, capered around, broke things, and sang blaxploitation songs while drinking from a bottle of Jameson's. One tends not to have much affect left the day following such a night, smoking or no.

I am beginning the struggle again. It is a real struggle. I wish it wasn't. Especially as it is the kind of thing that makes me feel extraordinarily self-indulgent—as in starving children in Africa. This is the worst post ever. I am going to have to cut out coffee, too, which makes the morning very, very fuzzy, as you can see. So much of what happens when I quit is physical: the giant Q-tip head effect I am experiencing right now, the severe muscle tension, the headaches, the gastro-intestinal irregularities, this stuff is a problem. But worse is the feeling that I am somehow too close to the world. Smoking is a very effective barrier—sometimes literally—between the self and the outside. Whenever I remove it I feel raw and a bit emotionally enflamed. Which is disgusting. Also, my brain gets completely scattered and I become even yet still more stupider than I actually am.

Georges Braque: “When someone appeals to talent, it is because his zeal is wanting.” I wish I had a talent for this. And by “this” I mean actually stopping smoking rather than “quitting,” for which I have a zealous history. My shrink told me to remember that this cannot be a passive process. Not bad advice. He also quoted Alcoholics Anonymous: “Move a muscle, change a feeling.” Which means that I should get off my ass; very good advice. I may subject you all to the rather dull litany of my daily life—I have found in the past that keeping an obsessive record of what I eat, when I go to bed and get up, if/how I exercise, the money I spend, is very helpful to me. I'm not sure why this is. I may or may not do this, and I may or may not post it.

Sleepy but determined. For now. Later I will write about the “affect issue” which probably makes sense to no one except M.

No Smokes Last Night. I guess that makes this Day 2.

Dark Clouds Over Madeleine

I don't usually work on Mondays, but I'm working today, and it's been very busy.

People keep walking up behind me and asking for help. I don't want them to see that I am writing a blog--more importantly, I don't want them to see the name of my blog for fear that they will go back to their desks and read it. I already imagine that the IT guy at the office is monitoring my Internet activity and knows somehow that I am writing this blog and is reading the Mildred. If you are reading the Mildred, IT guy, stop!

(Interesting that I fantasize about people reading this blog and imagine that others would be interested in this blog. On second thought, maybe not so interesting.)

Anyway, I need to work on my story tonight, but I am exhausted. I didn't sleep well last night--noise from the apartment below--and the work that I do (proofreading/editing/copywriting) can be draining.

So I feel like I won't be able to write tonight and this makes me feel really, really guilty, lazy, unproductive, etc., etc., etc. And now I feel even worse for complaining about this on my blog of all things. A blog!?! Why am I writing a blog?!?

That's it for today.

But I can report that I wrote yesterday and was feeling very good and positive about the writing and the story last night. Why the sudden change in attitude? The job? The approaching first class (Wednesday)? Bad lunch (pizza)?

I want to be the best writer in the class and I want the instructor to love my work. That also depresses me.

Scary Writing Stats for Madeleine from Our Dear Reader

NOTE: I started this post on October 1st and posted it on October 3rd.

Our dear reader asked me Wednesday night during dinner if I had finished my story yet.

He must have known the answer to the question--NO--because he has been reading the Mildred faithfully and anyone who has been reading the Mildred knows that I haven't finished story #1 yet.

I told him, no, I haven't finished it yet, but it is going well and I am enjoying it.

How many pages do you have left to write?, he asked.

Um, that's difficult to say, because I have long sections already written...

He interrupted me.  How many pages?

Six, I said, though I'm pretty sure that was an underestimation.

Then he proceeded to try to figure out, based on my past performance, i.e., how many pages I had written in the past 18 months, how long it would take me to write the six pages and finish the story.

The end of October, he said.  You will not finish that story before the end of October.

No way, I said, indignant.  I'm finishing it October 7th.

But, unfortunately, I think he may be right.

October 7th is Wednesday and I haven't written anything new since our dinner.  (I have revised a paragraph, though.  I must stop revising.)  October 7th is also the first meeting of my class, and I had wanted to have Story #1 finished by then.  Oh, well... But it's still possible!  I have five days--six, including tonight. I believe!  I believe!

The whole conversation made me uncomfortable, but it is interesting to think about page counts, etc., because it is unreasonable for me to think that I can change the way I write, the speed at which I write, my process, etc. etc., whenever I need to.  I will say, though, that the time it takes me to write a story from beginning to end decreases with each story that I write.  Story #1 is much easier for me to work on than my previous story, and Story #2 will be easier to finish than Story #1 (I hope, anyway).

No writing last night.