Exhausted

I am struggling. For two weeks now I have barely picked up instruments of the mind. I have barely read, I haven't written a word. Until today.

I have blamed being busy. I drive now, yay me, but it means I have an excuse to say that I don't have train writing time. It's perhaps slightly a valid excuse seeing as today, Frankie has the car, I am on the train and I am inspired to write this. I still think it is merely an excuse. I have not allowed myself to stop long enough lately to form the words I truly have boiling up inside of me. Yes, I like that. Boiling!

 Reading simply reminds me I am a failure of a writer as well.

I am in a frenzy.

Write what you know! Research! Detach! Fall in love with characters! Use less words! Use more! Every sentence must be beautiful! Simple is better!

It's a circle of insanity. My respect for any one who has been published has increased just once more. The pedestal you all stand on soars so far above the clouds.

I can't write what I am going through, because the story does not feel as though it is my own. It impacts on me, but I am not the leading role. When is it ok to take another persons experience and twist it for my literary self? Is that what it really is? It is my story, but is that enough?

I don't know how to write the curve balls life throws me, and my imagination is exhausted.