after a year of solid writing, either here or on Booksie – poems, stories, books, suddenly it’s like a dry well. and yes, we could call it “writer’s block” except it’s not so much I don’t know what to write. I just don’t want to write.
for that matter, I don’t want to do much of anything. I suppose it’s the tip of the bipolar depression showing up. the past few weeks I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on my work and some online and it fights hard with the ingrained notion I’m not worth it. so my body shuts down. if I keep producing, sooner or later I’m going to crash and burn. so, to keep that from happening, I shoot myself down early. at least then it’s me that brings myself down, and not someone else.
putting forth an effort in anything is truly an effort.
and … that’s all I have for now. hey – at least I produced something, right??