It sucks. A lot. I’m sitting here with a sun-lamp turned on, knowing I have the time to write, and it just sort of hurts to look at the pages. And the last time I had this crushing feeling was only a few days ago. Then I decided to do NaNo, wrote a few hundred words and… fell back into this cesspit. Someone from the kindle boards mentioned bi-polarity. I don’t think my highs and lows are as long as they should be, or as potent, but I do have moments where I decide it’ll all be awesome! … only to crash and burn a few hours later.
I used to write because I felt alone. I still think and plot because of that, but putting the words down makes it *work* and makes it hard. You can be judged on work. Or others have expectations because of your work. Maybe I just need to go scribble in a notebook like I used to instead of taking notes in class. Terrible sketches of characters next to scenes and moments that even I don’t remember any more.
Or I could put Delphinium aside just for the night. Write about the werewolves of Astrarctia, The Worldlian, the courtiers of Dreams, or my dear muse Gale.
Typing this is sort of helping. At least I’m typing. I’m trying to see if I can ease myself into it. I’m just thinking and typing here,see- it isn’t hard. You’re listening to music, have some cold tea, and there’s no hurt. Just turn this stream of conscious into prose.
Getting to the part where I stop worrying as much, but think it better to go to bed and start up in the morning. But tomorrow morning I’ll need to check some websites, go to the store, do something else and then it’ll be night again, and dark again, and I’ll be staring at Larkspur’s amazon page hoping for a review or a buy to cheer me up.
We have a family friend who is a magnificent artist. He paints beautiful work in just mere hours, smaller works in less. And he spends all of his money on alcohol. When he runs out he paints something really quick, sells it, and buys more alcohol. I used to think “that’s so silly, if he can create such amazing stuff so fast, why doesn’t he?” Now-a-days I’m wondering what’s his drink of choice.
How is this just as hard as before? I know people want what I’m writing. I know that. I know persistence helps, time and good work will equal small amounts of fame and livable wages. I’m ‘known’ on the fantasy subreddit kinda, I have great writer friends and some readers who are fans. I could write 1000 words in 20 minutes, I’ve done it before. But like that family friend it’s far easier to just… not.
I don’t know why I’m even writing this. I’ll either feel better tomorrow morning and be embarrassed, or feel just as bad and.. think about who else I could tell this to, in hope of some kind words that are band-aids to this gaping cannon-hole.
Stupid sun-lamp isn’t working. Stupid brain isn’t working.