The stuff gathering dust in my trunk, or on some USB stick, isn’t this heavy, but it suffers from the same issues:
Writing was not the problem, finishing was. Works in progress with titles like Mr. Ne’er-Do-Well (536 pages). Wherever There Are Two (660 pages of an outline), Death by Now (1,171 pages weighing over 12 points), or Miss Subways (402 pages and counting). All that would never see the light of day outside of Ted’s Bronx one-bedroom walk-up tenement apartment. Maybe today he would stumble upon a thought that would unleash the true word horde, that would unlock a puzzle, that would unblock him from himself, from his inability to compete and complete.
He remembered Coleridge, in the Vale of Chamouni, had written, “Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star…?” And that seemed to him to be the truest, saddest line in all of literature. Can you, man, find the poetry to keep the sun from rising, like a mountain, blocking its inevitable ascent for a few more moments? Can you, who call yourself a writer, find the words that will have an actual influence on the real and natural world? Magic passwords — shazam, open sesame, scoddy waddy doo dah — warriors lurking in the Trojan horse of words. The implicit answer to Coleridge’s question was: Hell, no. If the answer were yes, he would never have asked the question. The writer will never make something happen in the world. In fact, the act of writing may be in itself the final admission that one is powerless in reality.
David Duchovny, from his novel Bucky F*cking Dent (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2016).