Have you ever stared at the blinking "point of insertion" (yes, I did have Bus. Info Management yesterday) wondering where the hell your creative spirits went? And than you completely forget what you were trying to write about and watch tv? I think that's when you have to give up denail and admit to yourself that you're stuck. So I'll admit it. I'm stuck. There are writers who crank you a story a year, some who write a million a year, and some who write one book and disapear from the writing bussiness. Does the fact i'm even considering these things make me doomed to fall into the commercial poisonings of the writing company? A writers first novel is the best one. After that (not all the time of coarse but more often than not) they get sucked into writing for someone else, rather than themself. Themself? Did I even spell that write. So I'm stuck, writing-wise. I try to write and it comes out as self-absorbed, moody, emotional, crap that I'm so sickened by I can't even put my name on it. I'm in a weird place in my life. A state of waiting. Holding my breath waiting for something to happen. Good or bad, I'm waiting. Maybe that's why I'm stuck. Maybe I'm too concerned with myself and what I'm producing. Maybe I should just write and not care if it's complete and utter crap. But it's so... unsatisfying to write, and not write to your best. It's there, rumbling inside me. But I can't get it out. Maybe it has to grow. Maybe I've got something big to write, because these dry spells are often preceded by floods of writing, word after word, getting closer and closer to the that connection. I don't know what I mean by that connection only that I've found it and I've lost it countless times again and again. My mind is a hopeless, tangled, mess that can't even produce of single word worthy of being written.