one of those moments...
I'm having one of those moments, when I can't stay what I write. Not only old things-those, I've never appreciated them, with the exception of maybe one or two pieces- but EVERYTHING, in general.
Don't aske even why, I just do. It's something that happens, every now and then.
It's not evne lack of inspiration-that, I have in spades- but...I just feel depressed about what I do.
I don't like it, and since I don't do it myself, how can people approve of it? I asnwer myself that they can't, and they probably avoid reading my things altogether. I keeps telling myseòf that when I get a bad review- even if it's always from anon pr guests- it's the holy truth, and I should probably stop trying writing altogether, once and for all.
I tell myself that, considering that my works are almost hated-well, maybe not hated, but not appreciated and left with negative reviews, especially for what concerns the plot- in my own language, then, why should I bother trying to write in a langiage that's not my own? I ahve to be even worst, right? I think like that, I get depressed, and my writing...well, it's even worst. My creativity leaves altogether, completely, and when I am in a bad writing mood, I enter into a reading bad mood,and you can either beleive it or not, but when I am in a reading bad mood.... the smallest thing pisses me of.
Erog:arguing, bad mood, and the circles keeps repeating itself. All because I think that I should stop altogether writing.
Which would kind of shatter me, because it's one of the few good things left. And...I would be sorry. Especially for myself-or, since I think that nobody would care...just for myself.
(also because it's kind of pathetic that I don't have a life outside working, writing and reading...)
Yeah, well....sorry. I really don't know why I felt compelled to...well, writing this, and saying these things, but I just feel... not neglected, but...uncared for? I'm not sure I can explain myslef. I'm not even sure if I know what I want to say, exactly. I just knows that I read a note on a story few days ago, and a tweet from an author, and I realised that....
well, it doesn't matter. Actually, it doees, but, you know....
couple of days I'll probably be all right again. Or maybe not, but....well..you know. that0s life, and I should learn to just deal with it. And maybe stop complaining because I'm not liked enough ot stuff like that. It's childish, and I'll be 29 in a couple of weeks. Time to grown up, I guess, right?
Don't aske even why, I just do. It's something that happens, every now and then.
It's not evne lack of inspiration-that, I have in spades- but...I just feel depressed about what I do.
I don't like it, and since I don't do it myself, how can people approve of it? I asnwer myself that they can't, and they probably avoid reading my things altogether. I keeps telling myseòf that when I get a bad review- even if it's always from anon pr guests- it's the holy truth, and I should probably stop trying writing altogether, once and for all.
I tell myself that, considering that my works are almost hated-well, maybe not hated, but not appreciated and left with negative reviews, especially for what concerns the plot- in my own language, then, why should I bother trying to write in a langiage that's not my own? I ahve to be even worst, right? I think like that, I get depressed, and my writing...well, it's even worst. My creativity leaves altogether, completely, and when I am in a bad writing mood, I enter into a reading bad mood,and you can either beleive it or not, but when I am in a reading bad mood.... the smallest thing pisses me of.
Erog:arguing, bad mood, and the circles keeps repeating itself. All because I think that I should stop altogether writing.
Which would kind of shatter me, because it's one of the few good things left. And...I would be sorry. Especially for myself-or, since I think that nobody would care...just for myself.
(also because it's kind of pathetic that I don't have a life outside working, writing and reading...)
Yeah, well....sorry. I really don't know why I felt compelled to...well, writing this, and saying these things, but I just feel... not neglected, but...uncared for? I'm not sure I can explain myslef. I'm not even sure if I know what I want to say, exactly. I just knows that I read a note on a story few days ago, and a tweet from an author, and I realised that....
well, it doesn't matter. Actually, it doees, but, you know....
couple of days I'll probably be all right again. Or maybe not, but....well..you know. that0s life, and I should learn to just deal with it. And maybe stop complaining because I'm not liked enough ot stuff like that. It's childish, and I'll be 29 in a couple of weeks. Time to grown up, I guess, right?