The elements are there. Most of them…some…okay, a few. Some of the language is right—some of it even better than right. So what’s the problem about finishing the damned book?

The problem is that I am still writing words rather than ideas.  And I’m writing them in language that is bound by convention.

Without going into the actual substance of the book, this is what you need to know. The worst thing that the end of this book can be…well, there are lots of worst things it can be: pop-scientific, pseudo-spiritual, and acid flashback are just three of them. And one of the worst of the potential pitfalls is that the language that portrays the ideas must…

a) be emotional enough to convey the extraordinary wonder of the experience (read: accessible and human),

b) be obvious enough to have clear, descriptive impact about an unseen place (in other words, if it’s too trippy, no one will get what the hell I’m talking about), and

c) be in a form that not only communicates but represents another dimension of thought.

No small challenge, huh?

Sometimes, the task I’ve set myself feels as if I’m standing at sea level, trying to pitch a pebble all the way up to the Hillary Step…and the thing just keeps falling back and hitting me in the eye. My language has been bound by gravity and weighted by convention. I write form and neglect content. I search for content and I get nowhere fast. Getting nowhere fast makes me wonder whether I’m a good enough writer or smart enough to pull off the task. The small things that DO work make me believe that, with more thought and hard work, I’ll get it done.

What I need—what I want—is to open the trapdoor in my head, the one that opens onto sky. But ahahhhhhhh….Now we are in chicken-and-egg territory. Without the idea, the language can’t fly…without the flight, the ideas won’t come. Mobius loop. State of stall.

Time to put the head to the page and make myself go away. Time to open up and just let it fly.