Anxious night and here it is morning, trying to, what do you call it, work.  As I go back through the first six chapters making everything explicit to me and on the page, it gets longer and that makes me feel a little like I’m progressing.  The idea was 20 pg chapters but they are really btwn 25 and 30 this way.  So who’s counting but that puts me a solid 150 pgs into first draft.  It might make sense as I keep thinking the next thing that has to happen is a fairly big plot-event, in which the company she works for without paying attention to it collapses behind her back.  That would be part of a crest.  The anxiety came in part from this:  from feeling like I have written myself not into a corner but to the base of a mountain I don’t have the skills gear or knowledge to climb.  And in this moment I found myself asking for release from my work to do this project, and noticing deadlines for residencies and such approaching and the last feedback I got on what I wanted to use as a sample was this is incomprehensible.  But the anxiety took the form of “who the fuck do I think I am?”  Lazy, lazy trying to get out of working like everyone else even though one thing I think is people who aren’t trying to get out of work are largely deluded into thinking their work is something like meaningful– meaningful as in Good.  Is that still what I think or has Arab Spring & Occupy made me feel like some things people put their minds to matter because they did a good job?  I know that what I do all day when I am on my own is just as Good or Stupid or Irresponsible as what I do at the office.  I know I’ve been swallowing the pills of the man when when I’m up at night madly popping valerian to counter it/them (pills of man).  I know I don’t write because it’s Good I write because I get to.  Why does it feel so cluttered?  Maybe I’m growing away from what has always been what I thought about writing and returned to to steady myself, my grim resolve, my unabashed fuckit.  What could be the truth, now?

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