When writing…only occasionally…every other day…now…just to fuel the creative fire.

“I can DO this! Right? RIGHT?”

“This is OK, I’m in touch with my thoughts and my feelings, and I need that, I can identify them, I am my own psychoanalyst, I’m my own well of double-checking for that realistic human touch, I can DESCRIBE, for God’s sake, just the fact that I’m writing down this (hopefully not pointless) stream of consciousness makes me my very own James Joyce, so THERE.”

“Oh no. I’ve been sitting here for an hour now, and the text field is still empty. Shouldn’t something be happening by now?”

“This idea isn’t working. Why did I think it would work? Am I writing and making sense, or am I just typing whatever comes to mind? Does this even sound like me? Is it authentic? Is it true? Is it just a monologue about my idiosyncrasies and nothing more? Noooooo.”

“I don’t know if it works, or if it turned out the way I wanted it to, but at least I finished it! And now I can dance! Watch mah fingers!”

“Huh, I’m getting likes for this? Wow! Yes, of course this was a brilliant idea, dahling.”

“I’m just going to go outside and breathe in the smell of flowers and look at butterflies. It might inspire me, I’m allowed! Everything will be alright!”