Bill Bolton Hockey Night, Take Two

Well, we lost. But barely! It was 4-3, and the other team had twice as many players... But damn, it was fantastic to play league hockey again! I had a great time, and I was definitely pleased with my effort and how I've developed. Those 8 million skills lessons I've taken are beginning to pay off... I wasn't perfect, not remotely, and I fucked up one ideal shot at the net, I hesitated and the goalie poked it away, but other than that, I was definitely not playing as crappily as when I started the league one year ago. One assist, a couple of breakaways and blocked shots, not bad for an uncoordinated poet.

One pint of Stella at the pub after, good chats with the wide array of other hockey gals, and home to finish up that damn grant application...

If only I felt as good about the novel as I do right now about hockey. I guess it's a question of pressure. Doing "not horrible" at hockey is fabulous; anything less than what I perceive as brilliant in writing is heartbreaking.

I've paused in the actual narrative of the novel in order to deepen some of the characters, particularly the adult characters, so I've been working primarily on backstories and character sketches. I feel like I'm procrastinating because these are not pages that will see the light of proverbial day, but I keep trying to remind myself that this work is an essential, though non-gratifying, part of the process.

God, I hate that expression, "part of the process."

Anyway, novel-writing, or I suppose any long writing project, seems fraught with and intrinsically tied to psychological pressure, massive swings of emotion, guilt, and self-loathing. I feel like maybe I'm dating my novel, and it's a horribly unhealthy and abusive relationship.

Geez, that's a dark analogy. I think I'll just stop here. Though I bet I'm not even close to the first writer who has made such a comparison!

Cheers.

JUST WHAT I NEEDED by The Cars (a great song I heard earlier today!)