Nov 05, 2007 19:07
SUBJECT = UNDERSTATEMENT
I HATE this time of year. I always figure I don't actually mind it that much, but a week or two of staring at grey outside the window and being cold and I feel like utter, utter shit. Primarily, I have the worst writer's block ever. Why during NaNo? WHY? It was going so well!!! And now... nothing! I can't write ANYTHING!! And the worst part of it is that if you find yourself unable to do the thing you've set your heart and soul on doing for the rest of your life, you're left with the feeling that you therefore must be unable to do anything, which I know is ridiculous, but that doesn't make the feeling go away.
I can't write, like, any part of my novel, let alone the parts I particularly wanted to work on, and I can't even think about starting on my Greek History essay, even though I really ought to. And I've slobbed about all day in my pyjamas and I was meant to be going back to uni today and now I've left it too late either to get a train or a lift and I generally feel ill and my joints all ache. And I generally want to have the most tremendous moan to SOMEBODY and there's no one to moan at. Everybody's elsewhere, doing their own important things - which I don't begrudge people in the least, but it's fucking frustrating when you just need someone to whimper to about how much you currently hate your life and you can't find ANYBODY to do it at.
So, I'm sitting here weeping over my computer as I've been doing for most of the day, still completely and utterly unable to produce more than three hundred words every eight hours. Which is ridiculous when you think that I can stream-of-consciousness 2,100 words an hour. But even that isn't remotely helping today! And I have nothing to read, because all the books I actually want to read are back at uni, and I don't want to start anything else here, because then I will have another book cluttering up my room when I go back. I'm sick of starting boks and not finishing them. Out of my challenge to read fifty books in a year, I have so far managed 16 and that alone's some kind of personal record, which makes me realise just how pathetic my reading habits actually are.
Summary of this rant:
- I hate being me.
- I hate my life.
- I hate this weather.
- I hate writer's block.
- I hate having no one to talk to.
- I am not, despite appearances, in the sunniest of moods, this fucking crappy autumnal day.
Message ends.
writer's block,
death,
writing