Monday, February 07, 2005


hiding it under a bushel since 2002.

i don't know exactly why i stopped writing. maybe it was the combined distractions of falling in love and moving away. but maybe it started before then and those things just seemed like good excused to make it a habit. whatever happened, i hate it.

i hate that i'm not writing. i hate it. i hate that i am getting older with fewer and fewer pages to show for every year. i hate that my ambition is getting lost in my need for naps and email and Six Feet Under. i spend more time writing comments on the bulletin board of my online writers workshop than i do writing fiction or plays. the other members of the workshop are pretending not to notice that i haven't submitted a story in three years.

i guess i'm just now realizing that not writing anything down in this long means that i *stopped.* i kept thinking of it as . . .a delay. and now the length of time between when i felt good about writing and the current moment is making it extremely painful to start again.

i know, poor me. pain pain pain.

anyway. i'd say that i'm going to try again, but i've said it so many times to very little effect. i feel like a giant doofus. a giant doofus who is never going to publish a novel.


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