depression hurts. writing helps.

The title sounds a little tragic, I know, but this was a spur of the moment post that just kind of snowballed into a post for the blog.

I've been feeling a little... 'eh' the past two days. By eh, I mean more or less that I'd rather watch paint dry in the middle of a root canal without anesthesia than write another word for Illumine. The love-hate relationship I have with my writing is very 80-20, 80 being pure hate and frustration and the lone 20 being this obsessive love compulsion about it.

But recently it's take a bigger dominance over everything. On an average day, I can ignore the eighty percent telling me that I should have gone to college to get a better job like all my friends are working towards and write pretty prose into my works. Bad days like today and suddenly that college application to my local community college starts mocking me in the corner of my room, saying something along the lines of, "Nah nah told you so!"

I typically call these days Writer's Block days to feed my inner troll and get him to leave me alone in a week or so. Today, the troll isn't just asking for a question to get over the bridge or all the coins in my pocket. He's asking for my firstborn, my baby story.

I'm wondering if this is happening because I haven't edited my first draft yet, or maybe if I had written it in order like some say to do this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if I had indulged a little more in me-time instead of forcing to pound out the words a little harder maybe I wouldn't be staring at my draft going, "Why did I even write this?" The funny thing? Even as I'm mulling about the house doing mindless activities like washing dishes and breathing, I'm figuring out some of my faults to the story; missing scene here, character development lacking there, etc. Hopefully I can write it all out before the troll comes over the bridge again.

Ugh. I hate frustration.