So at the start of the year, I vowed less talking about writing, more writing. I've accomplished half of that -- turns out I'm pretty good at not doing something, as long as that something is not eating or drinking. The doing part -- not so much.
I did start a new project (the old one that I talked about for years is on hiatus), and started off like a house on fire -- aiming for a thousand words a day. The problem came when I realized that those thousand words were, almost without exception, garbage. This isn't a case of writing something, going back later, and wincing -- this was knowing it was shit as the words hit the page. It's pretty demoralizing.
A big part of the problem: the story's pretty humorless. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. My favorite Graham Greene novels are the bleakest -- there's not a lot of laughs in "A Burnt-Out Case." There's plenty of good, serious stuff out there, and the plot I came up with for this one required a serious touch. The problem is the way I write serious stuff. It's plodding, overly introspective, whiny. It's a whole lot of guys with a steely gaze looking off into the distance while contemplating the single tragedy that defines their lives. I've known this for a long time -- but I can't seem to correct it.
So: back to allegedly funny stuff it is (and another idea gets tossed on the hiatus bonfire). I've got a sense of humor -- studies have proved that -- and when I try to push it under, the results aren't pretty. Such is life. Onward.