Chapter Two Has Done Me In and I Have Done It In

Good god, the last five or six pages of chapter two were so hard to write. And not because anything particularly hard to deal with happened. It’s more just like I can’t quite convince myself that this is a book. And then I get irritated with myself because of course it’s a book. It might be a book that sucks, but it’s a book.

But here I am writing chapter two in which it ends up only two things really happen. The narrator goes out to Scottsboro and then the narrator goes to Kentucky. Dinner is made.

And everyone sits around and talks a lot. They tell stories.

But this is what people in my life do! We don’t do things. We drive places, we look at things, and we tell each other stories.

But that’s not the only thing that’s kind of weirding me out. The other thing that’s weirding me out is that, in the past, I’ve always written the kinds of things I like to read. This narrative, though, keeps kind of fucking with me in that regard.

Some of it is hard to tell. When I reread it, I might not like to read some of it just because it’s a first draft and it isn’t working.

But some of it is that we keep meeting these people who seem like a big deal, but who then fall by the wayside, because they only have some minor purpose with regards to furthering the story.

And I guess I should tell you that there’s been a lot of time between each of these sentences. I started this post an hour ago.

But the thing is, this is how I experience things, how I’ve always experienced them–that you get to know people, some of whom are important some of whom only seem important and you invest everything you’d invest in people and then you’re up and gone or they’re up and gone or you thought they were really interesting, but they didn’t really like you. Or visa versa. But it doesn’t matter because your time together is so short.

And so of course it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense.

It’s an ancient problem of mine. And one I’ve never come to terms with.

And yet, I feel like it’s crucial for the book that it be in there, not just talked about, but written into the shape of the book.

And yet, I feel like all these characters are telling stories more interesting than the main one.

And I feel like, if the book needs to be weird, it’s not as weird as it needs to be.

And I also feel like I need to just fucking stop worrying about it. It’s just a rough draft. Get it out so I can see how to fix it.

Ugh. And I still haven’t made plans yet to get to Watseka.