Lately, I just have been considering myself a complete and total creative failure. I might be right, but I think in fairness, I should rationally think the jury’s not out yet.

The writing is slower, harder, lonlier than I want it to be. Which then, of course, begs the question, why the fuck bother? It’s a stupid kind of masochism, really. The sun is shining there are wonderful things to do, people to make fun of, diversions of a thousand score.

So, yeah, I’m just an asshole who thinks I have something more to contribute. Delusional, that’s what I’d call that.

My mood’s a bit more cheery though after one little trick, one small pathetic gesture, one desperate boost to despair or the sinking feeling of fraudulence. I re-formatted.

So where I once thought I had one half-assed, half-written, wholly crappy chapter coming in at 5 pages, lo and fucking behold it now stands at 11 double-spaced. Thank all dieties and powers in the universe for white space.

The words still suck. But the space in between, the air, the light, gorgeous.