I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I am so tired.
That little girl, sitting alone in her room (with piles and piles of stories all around her) is dead. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Building a life-sustaining writing business has killed her soul and stolen her creative breath.
Sitting down at the computer makes my bones ache. What is my why? It is yours. Feeding the faceless on my will to survive. What is the point? It’s a question I ask whenever I am facing into the void.
Many days, I feel like I am shouting at nothing. My own words make me sick. I resent giving them away and I resent myself for giving up what has come to me on the back of a brutal fight.
I didn’t come from the background that breeds a writer. I don’t have the pedigree for it. I didn’t take root where it was safe to read my stories. Now I struggle with the shame of it.