This is that time when you want to throw your entire project out the window alongside all your other writing because how could you ever be a writer? Why would anyone want to read what you have to say? And what possessed you to think you ever could write anything besides a simple email?
I've wallowed. I've hidden in a ball under the covers in my room. I've cried. I've considered my sanity. I even had a long talk about my sanity with my husband. I ran a fever from stress.
And I'm back again today. Why? I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess. I'm an idiot. I'm someone who doesn't give up. I get angry and scream at it all whilst I write. So if you hear a distant string of irate banter, that's me: not giving up, but not exactly happy about it at the moment.
I want to give up, every fiber of me is hating myself for taking on such work. And I am mad that I am making myself do it. I am such a petulant child sometimes. But as long as I'm working toward something, I'm not going to interrupt. I'm going to let myself scream and banter and curse.
And I will do it until I stop screaming. And eventually I won't hate myself and my writing. Well, for awhile. It comes and goes.
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