I started writing again today which has already reminded me why I gave up for a while. No, not because I have writer’s block. I seldom struggle with that.
I have writer’s aggression. And it is so bad.
Would it be overkill to make a sign for my door that says Leave Me The F*ck Alone?
That’s what I have wanted to scream no less than seven times this morning.
The door is closed. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
This very real and acidic aggression is why I have barely written in years. And yet, to read more and to write more are my only real resolutions for 2020. They are the two that count the most. More than house stuff and work stuff and whatever other stuff.
Read more, write more.
One makes me happier. The other makes me unhappier. Go figure.
I just have to figure out how to do the writing part without simultaneously putting myself in a position that causes me to fantasise about committing murder.
It’s funny. The reading more is going ok. I’ve taken to reading a bit in the mornings and sometimes in the afternoons and sometimes after my husband goes to bed. My attention span is terrible and I struggle to maintain focus but I’m trying to get back into the habit.
With writing though?
I get lost so easily. I am in no way my own distraction when it comes to writing. The only problem is the venom inspired by anyone or anything that does distract me.
The door is closed. Leave me alone.