Brand new day

Yesterday was a day to be forgotten. After undergoing hideous, disfiguring surgery, I spent the day in bed doped up on Vicodin and watching Andy Griffith re-runs.

I posted last night that nothing could stop me from writing 1,000 words a day, not even a dental implant. I stand corrected. After that post, I fell asleep and never looked back. I start this morning a day late and 1,000 words short. Can I make up my lost progress? Time will tell.

But I emerged from my pharmaceutically-induced fog as a more humble and insightful writer. The things I have seen! The horrors I have known! Today I leave my demon behind and switch to ibuprofen. With a clearer head and a sorer jaw, I will continue on with my novel.

Expect a progress report this evening.

Writing under the influence

Today I had an implant placed in my head.

Okay, it was a fake tooth. And more specifically, it was screwed into my jaw bone. I am now writing under the influence of Vicodin, which is doing a decent job of controlling my pain. Until this evening, it also controlled my ability to write.

And this brings up an issue that every writer likely faces: when is it acceptable to take a day off from writing?

My short answer: never.

But you just had an implant, you say. Surely you can take some time off to recover. You are so macho!

I could babble on about artists and pain, and how without suffering, there could be no real art. But the truth is, I am weak. I don't trust myself. If I take a day off, who's to say I won't take a week? A month? Before long, I could be questioning whether I even want to write a book. Couldn't I just read one???

I equate the decision to write a novel with going on a diet or making a New Year's resolution. With each of these commitments, a case could be made on any given day to justify taking a break. I may even have a legitimate excuse for doing so (pet hamster died, college buddy in from the coast, dental implant). But taking a day off makes getting started the next day all the more difficult. And then I'm on that slippery slope. After a few more days off, I might as well just give up.

Choosing to write a novel is an odd sort of commitment. It requires thousands of hours and tremendous self discipline (not exactly my strong suit). No one is looking over my shoulder or monitoring my progress. The world has little interest in whether I finish or not, because in all likelihood, my book is crap -- most are.

So I rely on habits to get me through. Each day, I sit at my desk and flog myself into putting a few more words down, hoping that someday, in the not-too-distant future, I'll be glad I stuck it out (as opposed to joining the civilized world and earning a living).

I have come to the realization that being a writer means writing every day, whether I feel up to the task or not. Even if I write crap. So that is exactly what I intend to do.

I have 1,000 words to write. Don't be surprised if this chapter is strangely reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson.

"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..."