Havent’ written in a while. The last post I did was shit because my heart wasn’t in it.
As of right now, things are hard. Excuses and pity are not for me, though. But it can still get you down. Writing anything is work. It’s work that you can enjoy, or that you can loathe. I think that it is both sometimes. Completely and totally, actually. Every page can be a struggle sometimes. Every little fucking punctuation mark can feel like a fuckin’ knife being driven into your fucking HEAD like it does right now. I don’t wanna write right now. I don’t fucking care right now.
But here we are.
I figured that I could use all my hate, anger, frustration and self loathing to produce an honest piece of writing. Feels honest. How well crafted, I’m not sure. As for Blestemul, work has come to a halt for now. After 200 pages, I don’t feel like writing anything more about that book for a little while. It’s frustration that stops me. Mostly how I don’t want to write, I want to sit and stare off into oblivion.
But I do write. And I think about my characters. What about you? Hmm? What do you think? Of course none of you assholes will reply, but let’s pretend for 10 seconds that you actually give a shit. Do you keep your characters in your head after you’ve written them? Do you sometimes feel resentment towards them for exsistence? Do you feel resentment towards your audience for the feeling you inflict upon yourself (guilt) when you haven’t been writing. I do. I blame everthing but myself, but that’s what this entry is for, honestly.