I spent all day studying and prepping to try and write a short story that is supposed to be finished and in final draft form on Tuesday- and I could not write anything tonight.
I felt angry.
I felt like giving this writing nonsense up. What’s the point. I can’t write when I need to.
And it always generalizes: what’s the point of me trying to do anything. I hate most everything I produce in my life anyways. I’m an exercise in sterile mediocrity.
I get so frustrated so quickly. I get mad that I cannot just crank something perfect out in a short time. Like some master craft maker. Why? Where does that quick anger come from? That immense frustration? It is too much for a insignificant project like this.
I then saw a note from Steve Stucker on Facebook that an ill 20-month year old toddler he had been visiting in the hospital with her family died today.
And then I felt sad for the family and that child and forget anything about writing disabilities for a few minutes.
Giving up and going to bed early to try and shake this cold. Hope for better output tomorrow.