Writing a Book

Writing a book is no more difficult than writing a note on your phone. String enough words together and there you go. Book written. Problem solved.

This is the kind of bullshit that floats around in my head when I can’t seem to sit down for one god damn minute and do some work on the book. Then I think, “If you stop calling it ‘work’ then maybe you could do more,” and then I think, “SHUT UP, AGNES, NOBODY ASKED YOU.”

I have no idea who Agnes is; her name sounds like agony. She’s the voice of reason but also annoyance and frustration and judgment, more than anything. Pure, unadulterated judgment.

If I know anything, I know that it does not help. So then I try to do the absolute minimum, to write one page per day, or one paragraph, or one sentence or one letter. Or one blog post.

Jesus.

I suppose all the problems I’m encountering come from expectation. The answer is to become a buddha, to release myself from expectation, and accept everything as it is.

But we can’t do that, because then the book won’t get written.

Why am I like this?