Writer’s Block For Real

It seems like my life is some kind of dark/ hilarious/ ridiculous comedy. I keep on stumbling around and dealing with mental slap stick comedy.

I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe I need to write some poetry on feliciajane.blogspot.com because that might be what I need to break this thick ice of writer’s block.

My life has hit another snag (no breaks for me. Flying down the hill of life/ free fall/ locked doors/passenger to a car wreck) The time is ticking and if the clock hits zero before I complete this mission then part of my life will be sloughed off like an old skin. I don’t want to lose that part of myself but I am emotionally exhausted and that is never good. Where sanity hits its limit and insanity because a welcome change to this obnoxious monotony of failed life choices. Are they failed. Did I fail? Oh, to know the answer before it is asked.

On the plus side:

My first writer’s group is this coming Saturday and I’m so excited for it. Less than a month until the writer’s conference and I need to get this book done. I’m losing my mind. It’s somewhere around here. I took it out for a few seconds to clean it and now it’s gone. Maybe under this stack of papers?

Nope. 

Oh, jeez, not again. I guess I have to go down to the pawn shop and pawn my liver so that I can get a new brain. Why do I keep on losing my brain.

 

DofDM is currently hiding in a faroff starscape and I can’t seem to turn the starship around to get to that little bugger. It keeps on playing hide and seek with me and I’m so tired of chasing it all over the intergalactic stratescope. It just needs to stay in one place so I can pin it down and study it and replicate it onto paper. Oh, the random dreams that keep on creeping up on me like a panther stalks its prey from the boughs of trees. Quiet and stealthy with no hopes of escape.

Oh look at me, can’t I talk it straight sentences no, no, not now. I am however quite fond quintessential qualms about the quality of this quantifiably quiet life.

Welcome one, welcome all to the crazy playscape of a thoroughly exhausted novelist that is quite certain that although her God is enough she is starting to find sleep preferable to soldiering on towards a soddy, sloppy solitary life that keeps on hobbling her and causes her to flop into the cesspit of craven desires.

 

 

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