It’s not a feeling of being lost. More, misplaced. Scrambled rather than being a black hole of nothing.
What’s the point?
There is none. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Just as there doesn’t have to be a reason to breathe and live. Writing doesn’t need a reason–this is something that I consider a huge pillar in my years of accepting that I am a writer.
It doesn’t need a reason.
But, do I need a reason?
To publish, to finish this so-called ‘book’.
What am I afraid of?
Why can’t I accept things the way they are?
Why am I so resistant to giving up?
Self-doubt hammers me into the ground. Writing makes it better. But, self-doubt makes it difficult to be satisfied. So, I continue writing.
Isn’t that the point?
To just write.
But, then, why the blog?
To write. To prove something. To find meaning. To find a point.
Why have I focused on this ‘book’ for so long? With nothing to show for it?
Because I’m resistant to ever giving up.
More than anything else in my life.
My true feeling–if nothing comes of it, what have I accomplished?
Hardships, frustrations, writer’s block, what have I accomplished?
Something, or nothing. Or something.