Within the past six months I've started two novels, a screenplay, and a book of poetry. Yet I cannot seem to concentrate on any of them long enough to complete drafts that might be preludes to the actual work of rewriting and polishing the manuscripts.
Fuck selling them. I'd just like to get the damn work done, to make something real.
When I do look at these latest efforts I feel like I'm walking through a vast swamp of quicksand--and sinking. Some factors that contribute to this: my aforementioned lack of discipline, the depression which feeds my undisciplined work ethic, my anger, and not knowing what it is I'm doing--or why.
That's pretty rough terrain--a definition of writer's block? Insanity?
I was never cut out for this business, I think. I should have developed something else when I was younger.
I always dreamed of becoming a writer, didn't really think of much else; unfortunately I've never been capable of managing that dream or turning it into a satisfying reality--except on rare occasions.
The idea of being a writer rather than ideas themselves drove me--which is ass-backwards, a product of silly, modern romanticism.
Hell is being my age and knowing you blew it. It's also knowing that if I quit today I'd be dead within a year. I'm not saying that won't happen anyway--just that it would be a certainty after the fact of quitting.
My best writing is comedic. So where is my sense of humor lately?
Wait a sec here. I don't know if my best writing is comedic at all. I don't know anything.
TS
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