Nimue
Auror
I don’t write. I’ve put out less than 5k words since November. I sit down to write for an hour with everything else blocked and come up with 150 words. That was a pretty good day. I wish more than anything else that I could be content with not writing, with just reading and daydreaming and planning things out sometimes, because that’s all I’m doing anyway. If I could just excise this misguided desire to write a book, I wouldn’t be spending every waking moment alone guilty that I’m not writing, that I haven’t written, that I won’t write.
Yet with every song I listen to, every book I finish reading, the stories come welling up again, and putting them on paper is the most vivid they’ll get… All I can wonder is whether it would be more painful to keep trying for something I have no aptitude for or more painful to sever that limb & name it the failure it is. The balances keep sliding; it’s inevitable. The world does not need or desire another clumsy, mediocre fantasy manuscript— I’m the only one that needs it, and at this point I don’t know why.
If I can’t yet cut out that childhood wish, too long-grown to be nipped in the bud… I want to stop caring. I want to write awful things when I want to, and not mind how misshapen or infrequent or incomplete they are. I want to stop judging writing a minute old, for being ugly in its skin and bones… I don’t want to think about anything beyond its utility. I want to write a rough draft and not choke on it. Like when you’re drawing and don’t see the sketch, but what you imagine, when the eye willingly fools itself and lets you work on… Where has that useful delusion gone? How do you find it again?
Yet with every song I listen to, every book I finish reading, the stories come welling up again, and putting them on paper is the most vivid they’ll get… All I can wonder is whether it would be more painful to keep trying for something I have no aptitude for or more painful to sever that limb & name it the failure it is. The balances keep sliding; it’s inevitable. The world does not need or desire another clumsy, mediocre fantasy manuscript— I’m the only one that needs it, and at this point I don’t know why.
If I can’t yet cut out that childhood wish, too long-grown to be nipped in the bud… I want to stop caring. I want to write awful things when I want to, and not mind how misshapen or infrequent or incomplete they are. I want to stop judging writing a minute old, for being ugly in its skin and bones… I don’t want to think about anything beyond its utility. I want to write a rough draft and not choke on it. Like when you’re drawing and don’t see the sketch, but what you imagine, when the eye willingly fools itself and lets you work on… Where has that useful delusion gone? How do you find it again?