Sometimes there’s a day when frustration rattles every word and sentence. It becomes a fight up a muddy hole. Chapters and ideas seem like burnt mush. And every possibility to improve a book, or start something new, melts away before I can get a decent grip.
I seem blind. Frustration gains a firmer grip, and the only thing I hope for is a light to see my own damn words.
Because I put all my worth into writing.
But, if I feel as if I’m failing–that’s the frustration.
Everything goes into writing, so everything messes with it, too.
To be satisfied by my own writing–
That seems to be my goal.
For now.