Now, all I feel, all I can ever feel, it seems, is how stupid and pointless it is to be writing this crap. Even while I'm writing it. Especially while I'm writing it. Each sentence has to be forced through a miasma of terror and self-loathing. I'm lucky if I can manage to choke out a lousy thousand words a day. And before you start thinking that a thousand words a day isn't bad, let me remind you that I work from home. This is the only thing I have to do, besides maybe dishes and laundry and making dinner if I volunteered to do it. None of which takes up that much time.
I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it. I hate that I can't seem to stop it. I hate that it never fucking ends. I hate that I'm stuck in this endless loop of no self-esteem whatsoever when it comes to this shit that has stolen my love of writing and hasn't given it back in ten years. I hate that even getting an agent hasn't made any difference. If anything, it's made it worse.
And I hate that I should know better, and feel better about writing and especially about myself. It's not like there aren't examples out there of things I've written that people have really, really liked. It's not like there's anything wrong with me.
Except this, of course. I can't write, and I can't not write. It's all I've ever wanted to do. Except I can't do it.
Argh. Emo whiner is emo. Never mind.