#drinkingwaterlikeaboss

That time I said tacos were my kryptonite.  Or one of many food kryptonite items...  Well they were had again tonight.  What can I say, the wife leaves me with the kids for the evening and they wants what they wants.  And who am I to say no?  Ha!

Yummmmm.....  

Tonight the wife is away for a work event.  She hates tacos.  The kids and I love tacos.  Therefore, we had tacos...  

Tacos are one of many food items that are like kryptonite to me.  I had more than I should have.  Not as much as I would have two months ago, but more than I should have none-the-less.  

Time for copious amounts of water to help flush the system.  On the plus side, I've already had over 130 oz of water today.

In terms of progress, I’m all meta right now.  I completed the first draft (of the first section) of The Hole a few months ago, and then literally did nothing.  And by the way, that “nothing” wasn’t tactical; I just didn’t do anything with it.  I think I read some part of it one night; I’m 100% sure that if I did I had been drinking.  Afterward, I did nothing.

 A month or so ago I had a nagging feeling that I needed to “officially” “begin” the second draft or I’d be talking about it while I was lying on my deathbed (“I’m just working a few things out in my head...”), and then last week I sat down and sort of half-heartedly pronounced, “I’m beginning the second draft now.”  There wasn’t much in terms of process or certainty in front of me, it just seemed like I needed to sit down and turn the light on and kind of pretend to start re-writing it.  Since, I’ve re-read it (sort of closely), I’ve re-read the first chapter (more closely), I’ve thought written about it, I’ve written about writing about it, and now I’m sort of stuck with the ugly truth that to actually re-write it I need to actually re-write it, and to do that I need to know something about what I’m re-writing toward.  I’ve made a few notes from all the re-reading, like:

Where’s the fucking dad?

and:

Move more efficiently;

and my favorite so far:

Make Gracie feel like a funnier weirdo

but there isn’t a whole lot of sense of how to accomplish any of it.  Which is maybe why I feel so psychologocially weird about taking out a pen tonight and Beginning to Begin.  Which is also maybe a marker for why writing can feel as if it’s incredibly hard.  Because we all crave clarity, we all crave certainty, and at some point in time in this process there is neither.  There’s only the hope – supported, in my case, by absolutely no evidence whatsoever – that somewhere deep down I know what I’m doing, that talent will be a guide, and that if I mark up enough sentences something important will happen on the page.