I feel like I’ve failed so much lately. I feel like I’m falling apart.
I’ve been trying for six months to put together a new issue of my perzine, scribbling out bits and pieces to include that I only end up crumpling and tossing into the trash. I’ve written maybe three thousand words of my novel all month; getting the words to come out–any words, good or bad–has been more painful than any teeth extraction I’ve ever sat through. With little more than work worth talking about, I can’t even find the inspiration to blog outside of my Friday posts. Mostly, I just spend my time reading and, when I have yarn, knitting. I have Christmas presents to start working on soon after I pick up some new needles and yarn. I’m reading my third book in two weeks, the fastest I’ve read any in a while. Those are my life on my days off, and no one wants to read redundant posts that say, “This is what I knit today. This is what I read today.” Once in a while, maybe, but not constantly.
I feel like I have nothing to do with myself. Nothing that feels productive anyway.
And I know everything I’m doing is positive–creating and reading and learning–even if it’s not much, but I just feel stuck, stagnant, stunted, like I’ve reached a hill I can’t climb over, worrying there’s nothing on the other side anyway. I feel like nothing is meaningful enough.