Life is such a crazy thing, man. Just think about that for a second.

Such a crazy thing.

It’s 10:36 am. I sit here at my battlestation at Ugly Mugs. And I’m stuck.

I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

A guy’s phone just went off, an alarm — Daft Punk’s Robot Rock. It was extremely loud. He silenced it immediately.

I am at the tail end of another novelella. NOVELLA, not NOVELETTE. Thanks Ethan for correcting me.

I’ve got it in the chokehold — it’s over. I know it’s over. I know how it ends. It’s all mapped out. And yet, I’m stuck.

Struggling today.

This would be my second main work of fiction, Lucy and the Mingmerang being the first that I would have succeeded on finishing. It’s a battle, man. I’m learning a lot about the process.

It’s a strange thing to spend so much time in an entirely mental, fictional world. You have the incredible power to create an entire world in your mind. To visualize people and things that do not exist, to have them say things that have never been said. It’s like you live in it. But, of course you don’t. But it’s like you do. It feels like you do. And for the whole time that you’re writing it, you kind of do. You’re in it. You’re with it. At least I have been.

I close my eyes and imagine these creatures talking to each other, I think about their personalities, what they would say, what they look like, where they are. It just comes to me. And then, what happens? Where does the story go? Your brain figures it out. Ah yes, then THIS will happen. Of course, THIS will be a wonderful moment. THIS is the natural next step, THIS will be the climax, and THIS is how it ends.

Stephen King compared it to uncovering a fossil. That’s a good analogy. For me it feels like pulling something out of the ether. It feels like you have stumbled upon a thing that already exists, you’ve discovered it, and now it is your duty, if you choose to take it up, to bring it into existence in the tangible world, on paper. That you are meant to interpret and materialize it, like a mediator. The craft being how well you are able to do that. But in the same case as with Stephen King’s analogy, it feels like it already exists, to some degree. It feels like the plot and the main story already exists and you’re just uncovering it as you go.

It’s interesting that it feels that way, isn’t it? This is different from a blog post. I don’t feel like I’m uncovering anything here, because there is no plot. There is no story. This is just creating. I’m not uncovering anything, except you do discover some of what’s in your head when you start writing things down. It’s a good way to see what’s really going on in your mind, because it’s probably going to come out when you write.

I’m having a little struggle right now, but I don’t even know if I should call it a struggle. It’s just that, I know exactly what I’m supposed to write to finish this story, I know everything that happens from here on out, and more or less what I’m supposed to write. That’s why I say I’ve got it in the chokehold, because it’s going down. I know it. And yet, today, this morning — I am having the hardest time getting it down on paper.

It feels like a chore, almost. It’s excruciating.

Usually that goes away when you start, and things are flowing. But today, it has been so difficult. And I have more to write.

So, partially, I’m writing this to see if it means I don’t feel like writing, but that isn’t it. I do feel like writing. I’m wondering if I’m supposed to keep going, NOW, or if it means I should step away for some time.

The thing is, I know what to write, and I have to write it. So does it matter if it’s a struggle, or if it comes freely and easily? The only thing that MATTERS is that it gets written. That’s the only thing that really matters, because if it doesn’t get written, it doesn’t get read. And that’s the greatest failure. It’s that simple.

I have been thinking, from writing Lucy and the Mingmerang, and now working on this story, and trying to get a hold and finish some past stories — about the process.

There is one thing that’s true about it, a very clear and simple truth.

There is no way around, when writing the story. There is no way over, there is no way under, around, there is no hack or shortcut, you can’t skip… you get what I’m saying. There is only THROUGH.

You just have to get through it. That’s how you get to the end.

Whatever it takes.

This is why it takes persperation and dedication. That’s why I feel like the most important thing is that I show up every day and don’t let it go until it’s over. I almost have a fear, I DO have a fear, of letting it go. I feel like I have to attack these things. If you let it go, it can get away from you. Like a fish on the hook.

That’s why I feel like I have to push through this bit, right here. I can, therefore I MUST.

If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. Because that does happen.

I think I’m trying to hype myself up, here. Maybe that’s what I need in this moment.

It is working.

I need some power in my blood. I need some creative cocaine (or just some Celsius). I need some Writer Juice.

---

There was a story I wanted to share; this happened yesterday.

I had shown up to do my writing, here at Ugly Mugs. My process has been, for this story, show up every day, first thing in the morning, first and most important thing I do, show up at Ugly Mugs and write. Attack it, and get as far as I can. That has been working, so I keep doing it.

Yesterday from the start was just a weird day. Things were just going differently. You know how those days are. It’s just wacky from the get-go. It was one of those kinds of days, and I can’t even really remember why except that I was feeling so sleep deprived and weird, I didn’t want to get up as early as I did… Well, I made it to Ugly Mugs, and I sat down outside, and I did some warmup writing in my journal, because I felt that I needed it (both of these things are unusual, sitting outside and not immediately diving in). Well, I’m rambling here, but what happened was that I started doing my warm-up writing, and I found that my pen was dying. This was a problem, obviously, and I knew that I only had that one pen. And I thought, “A writer who only carries one pen? Idiot! Idiot!” (Jokingly, of course. Not self-abusing. It was funny.) But, come on. A writer with only one pen?

The thing about this, because I often do only carry one pen, is that I just never expect my pen to die. They last so long and I guess I’m just always thinking, “It’s not going to die TODAY.” And then eventually it dies.

Well, I had a backup in the car, I knew it. I didn’t want to use it, because it’s a piece of crap pen, from Gibson. Just a really low-tier pen, but I had no choice. I went out to the car and got the pen, and I thought for sure that this pen would be good, because I had hardly ever used that pen, because it sucks. That’s why I kept it in the car, for emergencies, and for simple business purposes. However, I had been given that pen, and someone set me up, because when I sat back down to continue my warmup writing, writing about how crappy the pen was, but it really wasn’t even that bad — I got three sentences in and that pen went COMPLETELY blank. Nothing, no ink left, at all. It didn’t even start to fade. It just straight up ran out.

That was a great tradegy, and now I was in trouble. I had to continue my story, I had to do this, it was already a tenuous morning, and now this was happening. I didn’t want to leave Ugly Mugs, but I had to have a pen. Well, the obvious thing to do was ask the baristas if anybody happened to have a spare pen. I went back inside and asked my main man, who I’m 95% runs the store, he’s a cool dude, I said, “Would you guys happen to have a spare pen?” And he says, “Yeah, I think so, over here,” and he reached into a little jar and pulled out a pen and handed it to me. “This is all we’ve got,” he said, seemingly apologetically, and I think he knew that he was handing me a crappy pen. He gave me one of those pens that you wonder why they even exist, the bottom of the line plastic stick pen that are just the absolute worst. I wasn’t going to complain at all, because some pen is better than no pen, and I had just taken it and said thanks, when another barista, a tall, young guy that I have never seen before (so he really must have just started, or been on a LONG vacation, (also why am I capitalizing words like this? I seem to be loving that today)), and the guy says, “Are you doing some writing?” And I said, “Yes,” and he said, looking at me the whole time, “Are you going to be doing a lot of writing?” And I said, “Yes, I would say that I’m doing a lot of writing.” And he said, “Take this,” and still, without taking his eyes off of me, like an absolute boss, he pulls a pen out of his pocket and holds it out to me.

I look at it, it looks familiar — the owner of the store sees it and says, “Is that a Pilot G2???” That sounded familiar, and then I took it, and I realized it’s the exact same kind of pen I use, even down to the point size (07). I was overjoyed, and I said, “Bruh, this is the exact pen I use!” He said, “Just don’t forget to give it back to me.” I thanked him profusely, “Bro, you’re saving me right now,” and he took the crappy pen back from me. I have to tell you that this was an exciting moment for all of the baristas, as the owner guy had been impressed by the Pilot G2, and then I had lit up like a Christmas tree, after being lethargic and sleep deprived, and I had been saved by this hero barista’s Pilot G2. The other tall barista had turned around from the drink he was working on and was smiling, seeing what was going on. It was pretty comical, and I felt like it was a sign, and exactly what I needed that morning. It was a sign from the universe that I was meant to keep writing the story.

I went back to the table, now with a fresh gust of wind, and I had a true feeling of obligation, that I now HAD to write something good, so that I didn’t let this guy down, he trusted me and saved me with his pen. And I thought, little does he know that his pen is being used to write an extraordinary masterpiece, one of the greatest works of literature of all time. This guy has no idea that his pen will be used to write The Wedding Ceremony, the second novella ever written by Steven Swanson when he was 29 years old and broke, living in East Nashville, and going to Ugly Mugs every day, and playing guitar in the park for children, dog walkers, and joggers. He might even want to keep that pen, that pen could be worth MILLIONS of dollars, framed in a museum, as the pen from the legendary blog post about the pen that was used to write the masterpiece. I should tell him, you might want to hold on to that pen, buddy.

I’ll sign the pen.

This is fun for me to imagine.

I gave the pen back to him after my session, and thanked him. I asked if he was a writer, he said, “Not really, but I do some writing. Like in my planner. I need something reliable.” I said he had good taste in pens.

I brought another Pilot G2 today, and I’m keeping it on me until I see him again, to give him as thanks.

I will say, this pen anecdote is exactly why I like working out of coffee shops, and why I like Ugly Mugs, and the more bustling shops. Lots of potential for fun and interesting social interactions. Yesterday as well, I just remembered, something that was also unusual that had happened that morning, before the whole pen business — I walked in, and noticed that there was a butterfly on the woman’s butt in front of me. I wondered if it would fly off, if she would notice it, and she didn’t, and it didn’t. It stayed on her as she ordered her coffee, as she went to put cream in it, and I thought, man, I have to say something. I just have to say something. So I walked over to her and said, “I think you’re going to have some good luck today.” She said, “Why’s that?” I said, “There’s a butterfly on your back.”

Now, I didn’t want to tell her that there was a butterfly on her butt. That would have meant I was looking at her butt. That could have been awkward, of course, I can’t admit that I was looking at a woman’s butt, no way — but she started slapping at her back (which was somewhat horrifying for me to see, because she could have very easily crushed or injured the butterfly with these slaps), but she was just hitting her back, and the butterfly was safe, down on her butt. So I had to say, after watching her struggle, “It’s on your butt.” I had to say it, there was no other way around it.

She then jerked her skirt, and the butterfly finally flew off and hurtled to the ground. She glanced at it, and said, “Is that a moth? It looks more like a moth.” I said, “I think it’s a butterfly.” (It was 100% a butterfly.)

Then, I went to go save it and escort it outside, and I said, that I would do so basically. A guy working in the corner, middle-aged, chillin’, he was interested, and he said to me, as I squatted down to try and catch it, “Is it rare?” I said, “No, I don’t think so, it’s just a skipper.” But then I thought, now, why can’t a skipper be rare? Surely there are rare skippers. The guy said, smiling, “I’m sure it would rather be outside than in a coffee shop.” He was enjoying watching me try to catch it, and I finally got it in my hands, a delicate act, without crushing it. The woman said again, as I was going down to catch it, “Are you sure it’s a butterfly? It looks like a moth to me,” and that was irritating me, I won’t lie to you, that she seemed so certain it was a moth, and I said, “It’s definitely a butterfly.” I thought about telling her that I studied entomology in college and that I could tell her quite exactly why it was a butterfly and not a moth, that I do insect macrophotography as a hobby, so I know what I’m talking about, thank you very much, but I didn’t say that. I just said, “It’s definitely a butterfly,” and thought, please stop calling it a moth.

---

Girl next to me just sneezed, I said “Bless you.”

+1 social interactions.

I’m feeling reinvigorated. This may have been exactly what I needed.

I’m ready to dive back in; the problem is it is now 11:30 am, I got around slow today, and I haven’t eaten anything, and I’m starving, and I don’t want to go home, and I don’t want to spend money (too much money) on food here, although the PB&J on sourdough isn’t THAT expensive… GAH!

Nothing can be easy!