Some days,I feel so tired. Today is one of those days.
I’m tired of the writing block, the writing fears, tired of the blank, unchanging page, weary of these story ideas that’s been in my head for years, and after hacking out rough drafts, they remain as rough and intangible as they began.
It’s so frustrating–I’m gloriously lucky. I work from home; I work in a job that is my passion; I have everything and more a person could wish for and I’m so tired of this dull brain of mine, that seems incapable of stringing two words together.
I have the idea, I know the plots’ ups and downs, but when I sit at the computer, words fail me, emotions fail me, and suddenly I’m looking at my characters from distorted glasses.
What lies behind this block? Fear of success? Fear of failure? Are the stories beyond me? Beneath me? Am I trying to hard? Not hard enough? Being to critical of myself? Not critical enough?
Writing is a drug, for me. A fix, a high. I’m vexed and grouchy becuase I can’t seem to get my dose and am now in withdrawal…
