My writing has stalled out and every day it makes me more frantic.
I sit in my normal writing spot and stare at my laptop screen. I sit in another, more desk-like spot and stare at lined paper. I go to the library, sit in an isolation desk, and stare at its walls.
It's not that I don't type or write or scribble words-- it's that the words don't coalesce into paragraphs or stories. All I get is gobble-di-gook.
On the other hand, I'm reading more.
How do I quit worrying and love the work? How do I get back in the rhythm?
This is making me wonder/worry/fret about all my life choices. Maybe I should have been a lawyer. Maybe I should have taken science classes (I've always liked science) and turned into a doctor/biologist/whatever the fuck that gets you paid and gives you something interesting to see and think about and do each day.
Not helping: my mother says I'm lazy. I'm also broke.
Is this writer's block? It's like I'm on the fucking VERGE of a tsunami orgasm, and can't-- quite-- go over the edge. Achingly horrific.
Please contribute via words of wisdom and love to the Save Sasha's Sanity fund.
Do You Know Who Your Narrator Is?
11 hours ago
No comments:
Post a Comment