After giving up on writing last night, I went to bed at a good time and slept decently well, and I woke up feeling oriented and optimistic about writing the story tonight. I went to work, and felt in decent shape, and had a little notebook with me to jot story thoughts down into when they might come by, and I captured a few.
About noon, I finally heard about Las Vegas.
Late afternoon, I heard about Tom Petty.
In the last hour of work, I grew hot at my desk and felt mildly feverish. My mood was sour as well.
I came home tonight and I tried to work the plan. I sat and tried to write for a few hours. I wrote three versions of a story intro, and started a fourth.
And then a wave of helplessness ran over me.
I could not write this story.
I cannot write this story.
And on top of that, I have no other stories to tell.
Embittered, I threw in the towel.
I was hoping to write something original for this class and I have failed. I am in full-on writer’s block. I am not feeling good from the cold, feel like I know little about everything and much about nothing, and even the effort involved to write a workable sentence feels like too much.
I am disappointed in myself.
And disappointed in the world at the same time. Disappointed the humanness of humanity.
I will follow my friend Chris’s suggestion. I’ll clean up “Sassy” and take that in to class.
I want to be a writer, and my brain doesn’t seem to work. I feel so angry at my limitations. My incapabilities. My creative dullness.
And whatever else is going on inside of my head.
It’s another good night to go to bed early again.