And I'll write: "It was dark." and then spend hours staring at that sentence and trying very hard not to follow it with "And stormy. A dark night filled with stormy darkness. And people. There were people in the stormy darkness."
Then I'll get filled with a very intense hatred for the written word, and pout, and go read things I love, and become despondent.
I am one with the despond. I have hatred and despond. I am swimming through a lake of hatred and despond. This lake is called my writing and I have no floaties to help me swim through it.
It seems like all I want to do lately is write autobiographical essays about the insane things that happen in my life, but that's not what I really *want* want, it's just all I can do.
What do you do when in such a quandry, gentle readers? And why do I feel the need to use the phrase 'gentle reader' incessantly these days? Riddle me that, gentle readers, riddle. me. that.