March 8, 2007
Waking up everyday brings the same. I expect a difference. One canít write if one doesnít write. I think Iím afraid of being reassured that I have lost it for sure. It may still be there, waiting. It may have never left. This torture could be a self-fulfilling prophecy. But why is it continuing on now that Iím no longer happy? Iím back to broken but still I got nothing. Am I giving up? Have I run dry? I miss that feeling of completing a story. Iíll never forget that feeling of completing a novel that I canít even edit.