Coffee floods my system.
Pens and paper fill my room and my laptop sits open waiting.
It waits–but I can’t answer.
My music plays.
My physical appearance is atrocious.
School is forgotten.
My thoughts wander, in the wrong direction.
I yell at the radio, of course they mention famous authors.
My characters argue about their futures–my future. Lydia is mad about Web and Jack, Melrie wants to be finished, Constante feels forgotten, and of course Ruin wants to come back from the ashes.
My family thinks it hilarious.
I rant about it, I talk to my characters out loud, but when I sit I can’t think of ANYTHING. I can’t write. I’m blocked.
I’ve gone insane.
I will never be a classic, like J.R.R. Tolkien or C.S. Lewis or L.M. Montgomery or George Orwell. I will be forgotten or never discovered.
And it hurts. I’m hurting.