Most of this week I've spent mulling over ideas and writing them down. I'm sick to death of my own voice. When I read over things I've written I feel sheepish, at best; physically ill and repulsed, at worst. I'm mentally exhausted. I sat down to read a book this afternoon and promptly fell asleep.
Most disconcerting in this is the fact that I have mostly been writing as part of an effort of discipline: writing daily because I enjoy it and want to do it.
I know writing is hard work but I never expected I'd want to disavow everything I write.
It feels like a collosial waste of time and effort, culminating in too much vapor.
I wonder if career writers ever feel this way. What do I honestly have to say that is worth coaxing into words and lines?
I need to go wash my dishes or talk to someone with something really significant to say (a child perhaps?).
Whose genius idea was it to start up a blog???