wow, the depression is so deep and dark, an empty hole in my gut. no, a vacuum that's sucking my insides into it as though it is a black hole that i have stumbled into.
i received a critique on my sentence. a very harsh one- the person couldn't even give me a generic "interesting idea" or "nice" comment. and to make myself feel better i reread the story. i figured it would cheer me up cause i have something there. it's a story. but no, it is nothing. it's boring. how did that happen? it was a story. now it is boring scenes strung together with nothing of interest in any of them. it is complete deadness on the page. how did i not see it before? and what is the point of working on it if i'm not a writer.
i am not a writer. i might have a story in my head but it's not something i can get on the page. it will never be alive. it will never have the import and meaning and impact i thought it had. i will never be one of those writers.
and now what will i do with my life if i can't be a writer?
it's so shocking and so deadeningly depressing. i have nothing left.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment