You have to remind yourself: this is how it goes. The mind-suck of searching for the story is draining and constant. Novels are not easy. You must remember: this is part of the plan. Go big or go home, other clichés, platitudes, hard work is its own reward, no that’s a bad one. Um.

Metaphors always ease the pain. You’re digging your hole bigger every day, deeper, wider, none of it turning into the tunnel you’re trying for, yet. No, a vein, you’re searching for a vein and it’s not there yet.

Better, there’s got to be a better metaphor. A bettaphor. Something that can be undone once it’s been done, because that’s what it is, that was part of the plan. Make it as big as possible and you can always cut it back to size. Back into something manageable, with a focus. Is there a type of painting where you just throw color onto the canvas until the easel can’t even support the damn thing anymore and then you scrape it off until you’ve got your Mona Lisa?

Maybe a cake. Bake all kinds of circles and squares and smoosh them into a pile and smother them with icing and then carve off pieces until it makes sense.

Building. Bridge building. With toothpicks and super glue.

I’m in this perspective class and besides that I’m watching DFW change third to first and back again and I keep thinking that’s what I’ve got to do, too, but I’m putting it off because it feels like a cop-out, to do it without cause, just because something needs to happen, but it feels like the only way I can think about writing lately is to do it from first for a reason or from third for a reason or from second because you love it and to hell with reasons. You can switch mid-paragraph. You can tell a story in footnotes, in the margins of a book, I’ve seen it.

The hole is probably more accurate than you want it to be, right now. But this is the plan. This is the plan. It will whittle down to something that’s not a hole, eventually.