I haven’t been able to write fiction lately; I’m not quite sure why.
(I’m writing this on February 20, 2024.)
When I type these non-fiction Substack posts, words fly onto the screen and paragraphs cascade down rapidly, as if gravity is on my side. But whenever I attempt to peck out the first page of my next novel, my brain hardens into a cement block and a tiny collection of words will just float indefinitely like a black cloud at the top of a white screen. It takes me days to produce a few dead paragraphs, which I’ll print out and edit obsessively, trying to convince myself that—if I squint hard enough—I’ll discover something worth pursuing. But these literary readings of the tea leaves only produce hopelessness. The shame is unbearable. Makes me want to disappear. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to disappear.) And all the printed pages ultimately end up becoming crumpled balls in the wastepaper basket.
At times like these—despite knowing that each of my nine previously published novels ultimately sprung from this painful, humiliating, and maybe even masochistic process—I fantasize about quitting writing and becoming a Jungian analyst. My analyst says he could see me going that route, maybe even spending time in Zürich, but his words lack conviction and hint at something both he and I have yet to unearth.
Today when I talked with him about my fiction-writing block—which takes all the light out of my eyes at the end of a fruitless day and makes it almost impossible for me to interact with other humans—I was quick to decry my suffering as ridiculous. My life is objectively terrific in so many ways. I love my wife and my dog and friends. The Lowcountry’s natural beauty often makes me euphoric. Celebratory fireworks explode in my brain every time I see a palm tree. I’ve never felt closer to my immediate family. When I’m not trying to write fiction, a profound sense of peace can overtake me.
But I keep trying and failing to write fiction anyway, which feels lately like psychologically waterboarding myself. It’s by far the worst thing about my current life.
What’s going on here?
I recently purchased a framed copy of the image below.
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