At this point, exposing hairline cracks in the damn thing is an exceptional victory for me. Though, actually, it's not necessarily writer's block that confounds my efforts - and maybe it never has been - but a self-destructive compulsion towards dismissing all produced work that falls short of the impossibly high altitudes required of perfection.
Relative perfection in art is perhaps achievable but I am intentionally setting myself up for dismal failure using such a delusional criteria for my own work. At the same time, should we not be aiming for perfection so that, when we inevitably fall far short, the flawed end product is as close to the shining twinkling ideal as humanly possible?
Somewhere there's a balance.
Still, I have something. A tangible thing more tangible than anything I've had in...god, two years? Three? I can honestly say that the last decent thing I wrote and finished was "Bone Den", a story based off a flash fiction written based off a black and white photo posted on Google+. And that fucking thing was the catalyst for the immensely fractured and innumerably revised, scrapped, and revisioned "Lamont" project.
Still not as bad as my planned zombie epic...that idea first bloomed back when zombies hadn't yet oversaturated public interest like so much artery-clogging lard. If I had to take a guess...2004?
God, ten years...
It took a supposed EF-1 tornado descending upon the town and a resulting 24-hour power outage to really force me to take a long hard look at (by scented candle) all the bits I have been scribbling together over the last two years and figure a way that they could be formed into a cohesive, interesting narrative. By the time the lights and the microwave and the fridge all kicked back on, I had banged up a very rough but sizeable chunk of a first chapter of a novel.
That chunk has since been refined a bit and is nearing a satisfying dramatic cut.
I feel like I've written this post before, maybe twice. And if I have, I have almost certainly deleted any evidence of their existence, embarrassed by my lack of the progress that was previously proudly proclaimed.
Oh well, it doesn't matter. This time, I have a thing, and I like it. Maybe no one else will, but I do.