The absolute worst is when I can’t write. I hate it when I can’t write. And the worst thing is, I can’t do anything about it. It’s not as if the creativity stops, oh no, it’s still there, it’s just out of my reach.
WAY out of my reach.
I started out with such promise. I had a new idea for a short story I was going to write down real quick when Annie wasn’t looking. It was going to be awesome, a steampunk story told in the same vein of H.P. Lovecraft. Because, f&ck it, why the hell not? And then it crashed and burned around me. I went to write the story today-nothing. I went outside, everything green and on the ground got mowed into submission in the hopes that something would spark.
I even put a frog (toad?) into a place of safety!
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. And I still don’t know what I want to make for dinner. I defrosted and am marinating ribeyes but the hell if I actually know what I want to eat.
I want to scream.
I want to shout and stamp my feet and throw a goddamned tantrum because I am frustrated. I am so frustrated my head actually hurts with it. Annie needs to be written, I want to work on this little project, I’ve got a million other things lined up that really need my attention.
I hate it because it leaves me feeling helpless. My head has all of these great ideas but that damned wall is sitting there. Laughing at me.
Some kind of therapy later.