I really need to get back to work on the novel. I haven’t written since my dad died, and I think I’ve used that as a cop out. It is hard though because my book does deal with fathers and sons, and the loss of his father and a search for a replacement father figure… and it was written entirely before my dad passed away. So, going back to it has been miserable because I really don’t want to talk about it, let alone write about it. And what’s more, I’m terrified how people will react to it, like I’m trying to say something about my own dad, which I’m not at all, but I kind of am (if that makes any sort of sense) and that’s what’s killing me. It’s depressing to finish it, and it’s even more depressing to scrap it.

I only have about a hundred pages to go. The end should be in sight, but I’m just not seeing it yet. I have vague ideas, but nothing concrete.

The are a couple of other road blocks, too. First, Wolf Gnards is too successful! I’ve become far too popular in Bill Murray circles. So, I end up sitting down and cranking out a Wolf Gnards article because it’s easy with almost instant gratification. Because no one cares about my regular writing (except of course for close friends and loved ones, and as we all know, they’re opinions do not count). Which then puts a motivational hinge on getting published, discovered, or recognized in any meaningful way. Nonsense, of course, because then I have to get published to write, but I have to write to get published. I just have to do it for me… and if not for fame or fortune just to get this god damn thing off my back.

The other reason is because my novel is not a work of genius. It’s mostly fine with a few bright spots. Can I be ok with this? Can I be ok with not being heralded? I’m starting to think maybe. I started reading Mysteries of the Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon, and that book isn’t good at all. It’s most redeeming quality is that it’s not bad. And Chabon’s done all right for himself… and he got better. Maybe, no one will hold a mediocre novel against me. While, possessing the qualities of not bad does not make a novel good, I could live with that. I could live with “thoroughly mediocre” and “ambitiously average.” I think I could do that, too. I can dare be average.