Not Writing a Book.

I hate writing. I hate its slowness. How it sits there and exists long after you have written it. I hate my clumsy fingers making spelling mistakes which I have to go back and fix. I hate these stupid words. I hate my own tiny, circling vocabulary. I believe myself to be a lyrical, poetic person, but these words have no lyricism; no poetry. I am so slow. There is no fluidity to this art form. I wish writing was something I could do. I tell people that I am a literary person, but I don't feel as such. I feel like an idiot when I write. Like my Father dancing salsa with my Mother. I will never attain the patience and sustained concentration that writing requires. I will write a thousand beginnings to a thousand stories. Stories that seem plodding and slow before I have even got past the first line. I want to write without pretence, just to tell.
Even now, my first compulsion is to delete these words and shut my computer down, and call myself an idiot and maybe punch the wall for its part in my stupidity. My thick fingers keep choking on the laptop's keys. I need to clean my teeth. I haven't cleaned my teeth yet and it is six o'clock in the evening. It is warm, a rare occurrence this summer. I am waiting for her, but I know that she isn't coming back tonight. I only met her last week but she fills me.
I am bored. I have been bored for around 2 months. Those first few weeks were not so boring I suppose. My Grandad was ill. I was searching for the right emotion to feel. There was a conversation I had with my Dad in the garden that I noted down, thinking that I would include it in some writing at some point. I can't remember if it was before or after my Grandad's death. He was my Mother's Father.

Me: I cricked my neck last night.
Him: You didn't? What happened?
Me: I was having a weird dream and I must have slept funny. I had some horrible dreams last night.
Him: Yeah?
Me: Horrible.
Him: Well, that's when your mind sorts out all the things that are happening around you so...
Me: (cutting him off) Yeah.
There was a pause while I wandered away from him and looked at the sky.
Me: Looks like it might rain.
Him: Yeah, I think it will.

I wrote it down because it seemed to carry some significance, but if I can't remember if it was before or after my Grandad's death, then it loses any metaphorical allusions it might have had.

I planned to write a book when I came home. It was not this. This is not a book, and I will not call it as such until it becomes one. A book is a word that has a moral value for me. Books are good. I don't consider myself to write books; I don't write books. What I mean is, when people asked me what I was going to do with my summer, I said I was writing a book. I meant it too. I had a flowchart consisting of characters and story lines. I had a main character called 'Patrick the cowboy' and a philosopher/narrator/sage who was a taxi driver. I envisioned a series of exciting scenes, broken up by philosophical monologues that challenged the characters and the reader. There was to be a woman with no legs in it.
In reality I was never really going to write that book, although I fully intended to. Hindsight is how I live, working out the order of things after they have happened. It seems obvious that I was never going to write the book now, now I have resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to write it. I can trace this point, back through time to the point at which I conceived the idea to write such a book. I can see now, that it was inevitable that I would not write that book. The very conception of the idea to write the book was just the beginning of the process leading me to not write the book. The compulsion that I had to write a book was the very compulsion that led me to not write it. I am writing; though we will not call it a book, I am writing.
If I could have projected, properly, the logic behind why I was saying that I would write a book, then I would have been able to see that I was not going to write it. Projected hindsight, in a sense. That is how people write books. They look forward, beyond the events that will make up the book, to their ending. And then, from this hypothetical future, they work backwards to the beginning of the book, working out the logical steps to find their beginning. Of course, logic does not work backwards, any logical step is contingent, and contingency only works one way. When I squeeze tomato sauce from a bottle, the sauce is not leaving the bottle, causing my the plastic container to be drawn inwards, along with my fingers that are supporting it. Contingency only works in one way. So writers must, when they work 'backwards', in this way, actually work forwards in tiny segments. Two steps backwards, one step forwards. This is their jittery time line, this is their knotted thread that links the main events of their story. The irony of course, is that stories endings are where they are most predictable, in an abstract sense. If a story is drawn to a conclusion, then it has been whittled down to its essential parts. All the sub-plots that fed the story, made it so complex and multi-layered, now end at the same time as the main narrative arc. The ending of a book is it's least interesting part. The story it tells has been told millions of time. All stories end in death, all humans end in death. The story ends, and all the characters within that story end too. How could they continue to be? There are no more pages for them.