The Problem with Ricardo

I have been avoiding working on the novel. Ricardo is a character in it.

There are quite a bit of things to add, writing I've done over the last week that should be added to the first two chapters.  For some reason, I can't get myself to sit still long enough.

Writers block is no excuse because the writing is coming.  I'm afraid of progress. And I'm annoyed that I can feeling this way.

Why not find out what this writing is made of and finish something of significant length and give it an honest chance for success or failure? I've been writing short stories for the last few years even though I don't think I'm that good at it.  I'm really too long-winded. An old writing friend of mine used to tell me, "it wants to be a novel, not a short story."

The other reader of this blog, besides myself, wrote me to say that I should keep blogging.  That I am hitting upon something here.  Could he have been referring to my family?

When I was 23, I started a novel about this crazy family.  Florid prose, plotless descriptions of all things ethnic.  I shudder when I think of it now.  Somewhere in my files, there are copies of this work in progress.  I was too young to tackle it at 23.  And then I convinced myself that we weren't that interesting.  And the truth is, I think the story of my family is more pathetic than interesting.

That family is also an interesting psychological study. Maybe someday I will get back to them.

Writing-wise, for now, I am involved in my very own Vietnamese/Filipino/Texas quagmire.

Tomorrow I'm going back to work.  All I've done today is sneeze and eat scones and porridge. I am well enough to work.