A massive party. An eruption of fireworks in the distance, The cheering from the neighbourhood as a step up to my window, struggling with the dodgy latch, and open it wide to all those adoring faces smiling up at me, overwhelmed by the fact that I finished my First Draft. How absolutely appalling that this was not the case.
'I'm scared of the turds I know are there...'
And why am I not more excited? Well sometimes I am, but not more than I am terrified of the coming process. It's like I climbed over the fence but I had no clue that it was ten mile trek on rocky terrain on the other side before I get to that cosy castle I keep eyeing up. That I keep romanticising!
I knew it would be hard. But it's harder than the hard you're thinking of. The hardest thing of all? Reading back over everything I did; over the ridiculous dialogue, the lacklustre descriptions, the moments I thought were genius which will (more than likely) resemble little turds upon each scene. I'm scared of the turds I know are there and the turds I suspect are there, but pray to the heavens I don't have to clean up.
'...whilst the draft goes unread I can live in my disillusion.'
This is my limbo. In writing terms. I need to go forward, I can't go back. But whilst the draft goes unread I can live in my disillusion. My denial runs so deep, that I may as well be rooted to the spot in which I sit, unable to get snacks or move out of this house. The future owners will have to tolerate that this room is occupied by the laziest, procrastinating breed of human; the writer. Housing prices will drop and eventually, owners will come and go, growing tired of the midnight wailing's and hesitant typing through all hours of the day. And then the house will be forgotten, with its resident as well. This will be the place where the kids, by decree of their wary parents, won't even go in fear of being cursed by the spirit of procrastination. As they throw bricks from the decaying garden at the windows (two points for a crack, ten points for a smash) they are frightened off by the trembling groan that seems to come from the very foundations of the house itself. And there I sit, rubbing my aching head, wondering when bricks started falling from the sky. And my Screenplay sits open, on page one. Waiting for the edit that never came.
Or I can consider an alternative. That it might not be that bad. That it will be exciting to improve something I'm proud of completing, something so personal to me. I will move from this spot, one day, with a finished script in my hand and a shit-eating grin on my cocky face. Proud of the fact I have something that might just get made. Hell, I may even be walking out with my first manuscript too, a cheque big enough to buy all the DVD's I want and keys to a vintage Bentley while we're at it. That would be a great day.
I'll get on it soon. I haven't stopped writing since which is a great sign, but this may be the first time I've ever procrastinated one thing by working on everything else... I'll get round to it. I've already achieved my goal of Quarantine; finish a first draft. I'm gonna enjoy that a little bit longer. Then I'll work on it. I promised. I never make a promise I can't keep. I owe me that much.