requiem for a delusion

you get used to dreams dying: the love that doesn't work out; the longed-for college place that turns sour; the house that's perfect for you, but which you can't afford; your desire to be six feet tall.

i have abandoned the big fat novel i've been 'working on' (read 'not working on') since the start of the year. the seed of this project was planted about six or seven years ago, and has ebbed and flowed in and out of my mind ever since: scenes, characters and general structure have grown, shrunk, and morphed into different shapes, but the spine of the thing has been around for ages. this weekend, though, i realised that it just wasn't going to happen: it's tired, it's stale, it's lifeless, it' directionless. it's a flaccid series of tableaux and personal histories, lacking shape and energy.

worse, i can't summon up the energy and enthusiasm to wrestle with it and turn it into something more sinuous and galvanic. this is symptomatic of: my lack of technical skills and expertise; my sense that it's just duty that's keeping me pecking away at the story; my inability to concentrate, and my lack of determination.

when i was on the dole for a few months in 2003, i wrote 150 pages of a different novel, and really felt like i could make it happen: it gave, shape, meaning and direction to my life at a difficult time. now that i'm working full time again, i have to carve out the time to write: i have to display a degree of dedication and discipline that i just don't have. this makes me think that i'm never going to finish anything that's novel-sized in scale and scope.

i've harboured the idea of being a writer for 20-odd years, and yet i've never applied myself to achieving anything in a consistent and concrete way. i think that says everything that needs to be said about the realism of my expectations, and about my dedication.

so i'm packing it in. that dream/delusion needs to be laid to rest. i need to find a different one.