Completely Incompletable

You write and you write one story, not knowing when you'll finish it, if ever, but knowing that once it's done you will finally hear the sound of one hand clapping. But when the moment comes, it's like a little death. Suddenly, you've got nothing left. And then you feel like eating something really good to celebrate the finality of something. But you know deep down that that won't fill you up and it won't complete the experience because the experience is inherently incompletable. Then you think, maybe sharing the experience with a friend will help, but that too turns out to be an illusory sense of self-enhancement. What do you do?

As I'm sitting here at Buzz Coffee on Beverly, I'm realizing there's nothing to do but to continue sitting.

"What about the rewrite?" my mind wants to know. But what I'm really thinking about is the end result.

Right action is only appropriate in the moment it's needed. What's the right action now?

Nothing is coming up, but I'm not as worried as I used to be in a similar situation.

10 minutes later:

I got an impulse to read an excerpt from Peter Brown's book and I came across the questioner saying "sometimes the words come together in just the right way..." and Peter answering, "my approach is if you throw enough words out, kind of like a million monkeys pounding on a million typewriters, sooner or later you'll say something meaningful..."

That pretty much answers my rewriting question.

What do the neurotic thoughts have to do with it?

The Inquiry

What will happen to my writing without the neurotic thoughts I have about it?

I've been catching my thoughts on the fly. Some of which are:
I need to write
Should I write?
Is this a good time to write?
I can't figure out that part, figures.
Should I change the story because I can't figure out that part?
This part makes me feel yucky.
Am I ever going to finish this story?
What about the other stories I started?
On and on and on and on...

The inquiry starts here. The writing itself has nothing to do with the thoughts I have about it. When it happens, it happens all by itself without the intrusions of mind. The only thing these thoughts affect are my mental state. The writing doesn't care. It happens on its own when the thoughts about it get out of the way.

Who would I be without these thoughts?

Isn't that the ultimate question. Who am I without the habitual thoughts that accompany me for no other reason but to keep themselves alive?

Reflection

I've been noticing that the act of writing is much more harmonious without my thinking about it beforehand or after. And if something else comes up instead of writing, that too is not a problem when I don't make stories about how it should be.

Today for instance, I'm taking a day off from writing or thinking about writing. Thoughts arose here and there, but I focused on other things like dusting, taking a walk, listening to the external sounds, and noticing my breath. It has been relaxing thus far. I did feel inclined to write a blog about it. But there were no neurotic questions like "should I do it or not" beforehand.