So I share a hometown with Jonathan Tropper, the best-selling author of a ton of excellent books. We’ve become friends—he actually hooked me up with Manhattanville College, where I’m now teaching intro to journalism.
I bring this up because, a few minutes ago, Jonathan walked into Borders and took the corner table opposite mine. We’re both working on books, and this is a pretty good spot to work. Hence, our presences.
That said, I’m dragging. D-r-a-g-g-i-n-g. Book is due at the end of December, and I’ve been at it for a looooong time. Like, two years. It’s beating me up a bit. Wanna get past this guy’s career, but he played for so long, and accomplished so many things. The home runs. The goals. The bake-offs. Just goes on forever.
I’m easily staring down the roughtest part of the book experience—topic fatigue. You live with this person for months upon months, and you just want him to go out and get a job and an apartment. But he can’t, because he’s deceased and dwelling only in your head. He refuses to leave, no matter how loud I play the music; no matter what store I visit; no matter how far I run. He’s there. Stuck. Stubbornly refusing to get out.
And yet, I can’t write. Can’t. Topped out at 860 words yesterday, which isn’t enough. Have only written 400 or so today—uhg. Gotta churn some 2,000 days. Even some 3,000 days. Deadline looming.
Crap.
