(lack of) Progress

November's over halfway over and there's pretty much no way I'm going to hit 50,000 words by the end of the month. I got distracted by work, there were birthday parties to attend to, my mind has been focused on pursuits far from the solitude of writing.

Which is not to say the effort I've expended so far has been a complete waste. I actually think the germ of an idea I started with could (with a lot more TLC) blossom into something that would be enjoyable to read. But that path is dark and toilsome, and my resolve is faltering. Then, in an effort to see good writing, I start reading instead, and wonder how Bill Bryson manages so effortlessly to weave his sentences into a narrative, and be funny to boot.

Add to all this increasing anxiety about what I want to do with my life. Lately, I've been shying away from the idea of econ grad, but then I don't know what I'd pursue in lieu of academia. It's not so much the misery of being in grad school that scares me, I've just been giving more thought to the other opportunities I'd be passing up. Sure, I'd be happy in a research environment, but I think I'd also be highly effective as an entrepreneur. And then, I daydream about being a food critic. Or a university president. Those are my current ideal jobs at the moment, and both fields are naturally quite competitive.

Norman Mailer died last week, and though I've only read one of his works and wasn't a huge fan, he is certainly part of the canon of 20th century American literature. More importantly, in this age of celebrity, he had an outsize personality to match. From the NYT memorial article, we get this colorful description:

At different points in his life Mr. Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women's liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.

Well, whatever I decide to do, it looks like it's never too late to change your mind.