Environmental Influence – The Climb#686

Friday 8^th January 2021

I wish I didn’t get impacted by the world around me. I guess you’re supposed to, as a writer. You’re supposed to absorb the world and spit it out in a way that all makes sense in the form of a story.

I’ve often said that my productivity has been a bit of a yoyo since the pandemic. At times I can be super-productive. I knuckle down, get into what I do and don’t look up until it’s done. Other days, words are treacle, ugly and uninspired.

Thankfully, everything in my life is pretty calm right now. Loved ones are safe and well. There’s no dramas – only in the world beyond. I’m feeling pretty good after getting that script done.

But then today… I can’t focus. What was enthusiasm before suddenly feels like a millstone around my neck. I feel like my word count has gone into reverse. There are days when you feel ugly as a writer, beauty measured by the words on the page… and today is one of those days.

Because everything in my life is so stable, it’s positively boring, I can put this all down to one thing: world news. I’ve been so angry these past 48 hours – particularly with idiots who seem to have lost all grip with reality whether they be fascists or covidiots.

I can look at it and see the cause so plainly, but it still comes as a surprise.

It doesn’t help that this novel is a battle. I’m not generally the jealous type when it comes to writing. I won’t lie that there’s a bit of frustration currently to which the cure is to be patient. But, I don’t tend to get jealous of other’s success. Their productivity on the other hand?

I was looking at one writer on Instagram. They’ve had an incredible year and I found a post where they listed all they accomplished. And I was jealous. Super, super jealous.

This is my year of productivity and I have such an ambitious plan that the break for writing the script has put me massively behind. And yet it pales in comparison to everything they accomplished.

I’m not sure why this should bother me. But I find myself lamenting their beautiful prose and comparing it to just how mundane mine feels. People make quotes from their books. There’s nothing quotable about this novel.

I know every novel is different. Sometimes the words just pour out, but this one is a real battle. It’s making me doubt every word. I’ve changed the tense but something still doesn’t feel right and I’m not sure if it’s just me. I’ve written pieces in the past that felt the same only to review them later on and see just how wrong I was.

This is a book that will be fixed in the second draft, no doubt. It feels like it lacks voice. It feels like it lacks substance. I feel like a shit writer today.

Tomorrow it’ll pass, no doubt. This is a product of environment rather than art… but I wish that the world around me didn’t impact me so much.