A random, unedited ranting agains God knows what.
God knows what. To the hell with it.
I've had some problems in my life, but never in a way I couldn't express myself like now. I promise you reader that this is pure babbling and nothing else. Guaranteed.
Do I know what to do next? Is this what is constantly refered to as a 'writer's block?'
I don't really know. I can't even express my current state of mind. I don't know whether 'state of mind' is a good description of it, anyway.
So be advised, nothing gets out of it, there's nothing here. On with that farce of a book, on with counting words... no... characters to see they sum up to a credible length for a chapter. An authentic writer wouldn't trouble herself to do it.
A year has passed since I promised myself I would write something with some meaning in it. So far I haven't even written a lousy phrase. Well, I have, but so much editing is in my way, so much work to do! Wait, 'work to do?' Come on, I don't have the slightest clue of it, so it isn't even work to do.
I set myself to read "Don Quixote" in English, followed by "Don Quixote" in Spanish, back to back, but I don't speak Spanish. I don't even speak English well enough.
A script, a forecast of the path that will lead to the writing a perfect novel. The thing is this forecast more and more looked like a daydream: the valiant writer-to-be endures the daunting task of reading Cervantes twice and, at the same time, having interwining readings Joyce, Borges, Conrad and other classics perchance found at a great price in paperback or for free in the Internet.
It is really good to dream, and arguably one can go through the aforementioned steps, and even learn another language in the process, only by means of her will and determination. All the suffering begins in the second part of that forecasted greatness: having read all that, the now writer in the making conveys great ideas and an enhance knowledge of the language into an interesting text, thus contributing literature with a work at least readable.
Great ideas and enhanced knowledge are, at least in this non-writer's oppinion, easy to get a hold of, but turning them into a book, albeit a lousy one, seems far from doable even. In all senses, I feel strangled by time, patience and my own very well noticeable inability. Even dwelling in failure a whole book, beginning, middle and end, can't compare to the inability to write one. Enclausured thoughts and wishes, never translated into words, characters even, even now I have to go and get some sleep, have to satisfy my peers and bosses and keensmiths, and this text will continue some other time.
I keep a stringe of hope, so it will continue some other time. Some other time will come, I only hope.