I am miserable. I am feeling creatively blocked. I hate everything I write. I feel worthless. I feel aimless. I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep. And eat. Everytime I feel better, I veer off the elevated road into a muddy putrid foul ditch.
I looked up previous May posts. I become happy again.
Maybe I should just take a vacation from my fiction for a month (apparently my Muse goes on vacation then, too). Staring at the screen and feeling like a failure and wanting to cry out of pure frustration is a real drag.
Update: right after I wrote this post, a friend of mine emailed me a nytimes opinion piece by David Brooks on Sandra Bullock. In his article, the writer begins with the following description and question:
Two things happened to Sandra Bullock this month. First, she won an Academy Award for best actress. Then came the news reports claiming that her husband is an adulterous jerk. So the philosophic question of the day is: Would you take that as a deal? Would you exchange a tremendous professional triumph for a severe personal blow?
My answer: no. No matter how shitty my writing goes, I wouldn’t trade my marriage in. Long long ago I asked for one thing out of life: marital happiness. Long ago, I prioritized my marriage above my writing. The happiness and support from my marriage is the platform for my life, one that if erased, would devastate me more than writing failure.
Of course, I’m still miserable about my writing.