I am a lump. I am a boiled potato of wasted potential. I am a mass of blankets on the couch repeating, “Bud, mommy feels yucky. Can you play by yourself for a little while?” every morning for the past 8 weeks*.
To say I “haven’t written much lately” is a gross understatement and I hate myself just a little bit for it. I’ve been hashtag gaming the same WIP for months now because I have nothing else to draw from. I’ve written down ideas but can’t get the story to come out. I’ve opened blank pages, and unfinished pages, and notebooks and still, I end up on Buzzfeed taking quizzes about food that tell me I’m 18 and single and will never have kids. It’s pathetic. And I’m tired of it.
So I signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo! I did it today. I don’t know what I’m going to write, but DAMNIT, I’m going to write SOMETHING.
Yeah! Take that, life! Take that low energy! Take that raging hormones and mood swings and that perpetual feeling of “am I going to puke or am I starving because I honestly can’t tell right now.”