In the past few days, I have touched upon pretty much every emotion on the scale, which could perhaps be blamed on those inevitable female things which I suppose can’t be avoided at times. I successfully crawled through the worst Monday of my life, managed to avoid losing my mind, and discovered that one cannot go 24 hours without sleep and still feel like a rockstar (unless you’re Superman, that is). I have very unsuccessfully been attempting to write.
I could of course make school the scapegoat of my poor productivity level. This is the last full week of classes before exams, which means I figure out my teachers really are trying to bury me alive with work, and I also figure out that I’m an even worse procrastinator than I thought. A revelation, I tell you.
These past few days have been hard. I look at the mess that is my novel and I see what it could be, but I don’t feel as though I could come close to doing the story and the characters justice. I feel like such a wanna-be, a fraud, a sham, a pathetic loser endlessly deluding myself into believing that I could ever be successful at the one thing I’ve always believed in, the one thing I’ve always loved.
It just feels as though I’m going in circles. I can’t take a break; I’ve been on one for the past year. I don’t want to write, because I’m terrified and certain that my words will be wrong, that they won’t say what I need them to say. So I don’t write.
And not writing hurts like hell.