I’m struggling with my fiction. It used to be a sweet release for me. Just close my eyes, and these ideas would flood me, but now my subconscious is clinging to those ideas. The more honest and raw I let myself be, the less likely I am to come up with fiction, to create worlds out of thin air.
I don’t know how God created the world in seven days because it sure as hell is going to take me longer than seven days to create the worlds I want to create. I have so many beginnings, and I’m not sure the words are coming in anymore. I may have to cash in my chips. “How’s it feel to be on the verge of twenty-eight and already a has-been?” My subconscious critic teases. I hate this block. It’s making a mess of me. I am so tired of giving up on my writing before I really began. What I need is motivation and energy. I’ve been so lethargic lately.
Just so very tired. Battling demons of mine in the middle of the night with nothing but tears and an accomplice is exhausting.