I just can’t seem to write lately. I read what I’ve posted and it just seems like disconnected nonsensical garbled static. And as for my novels and projects and whatnot, it all reads like badly written insane drivel. I can’t stand to look at any of it.
It’s weird. When I’m away with the faeries it all seems to make sense, but sometimes the fog clears and I see everything for what it is. Just a mad jumble of mental bitch nonsense, jagged and jarring in style.
And this is not a cry for validation or encouragement. You’ve all been tremendously generous with your support, I’m not agitating for more praise at all.
Mostly it’s just embarrassing for the fog of poor psychological hygiene to clear, only to perceive crap as far as the eye can see.
Still, the high tide of batshit crazy will roll in a again. I’ll return to the delusion that I can actually write and I’ll be fine. Demented and full of grandiose notions, but basically fine. The village lunatic, happily squatting in the gutter muttering to herself.
More cats. That’s the answer. I just need lots more cats.
In this moment of lucidity, I think the best thing I can do is not see myself as a writer at all. Better to think of myself as some kind of aberrative novelty act. An outsider artist like Henry Darger or something, just not very good.
Just some weirdo locked away in a room somewhere clinging to their insanity because its the only thing that’s real anymore.
Or even better again, try not to think at all. Most especially not about myself. Egotistical self obsessed basic bitch that I am.
Or am not.
Or whatever at all.