I’ve written books in the past. In 2012 I failed at doing this again for various reasons. Now I’m trying to write a book that’s young adult, but I’m realizing I don’t want to write young protagonists at the moment.
But for some reason that’s what I’m doing.
Welcome to my nightmare.
I often hate myself for being a contrarian about how much I like my own books. I come up with an idea I think is great and a few weeks after I start writing it the whole thing turns to shit. I can’t win. Regardless of what I do, I can’t please myself with a single freaking book. Sometimes I can’t please myself for a single sentence. There is not any reason for it most of the time–Maybe I get bored, maybe I’m a perfectionist (I’ve been accused of this in the past). Maybe I’m just afraid. I’ve been called brave for writing stuff. I tell you now, there isn’t a brave bone in my body.
I could break into pieces right now. The terror at doing anything is paralyzing. The fear of doing nothing makes me crazy. Whining is what I do best. I whine all the time in real life. I whine so much there is little time for anything else.
I want to write–I still do. But every time I do I feel like I’m on fire and I crash. I’ve got no passion for anything else in life. How can I write when I don’t love anything? I don’t know if I can.