There will always be distractions. There will always be heartbreak. There will always be thoughts that monopolize your time, your attention, your subconscious braincycles, despite all intentions to save those things for the writing.
The so-simplistic-and-oft-repeated-it-borders-on-cliche advice is to Write Through It. That’s never worked for me. My emotive unrest is so all-encompassing it is impossible to graft it onto another context convincingly. Oh dear god I think the utter magnitude of my ego may be about to collapse in on itself and form a black hole. (How embarrassing.)
Let me try that again: the emotive unrest I’m experiencing is too raw to incorporate into fiction like an experienced truth because I’m still experiencing it. And without a compelling perspective and necessary emotional distance, it’s all just goth poetry.
I desperately need to sever ties that are binding me in discomfortable ways but I’m conflicted or reluctant or both because of history or obligation or some vague misapprehension that maybe things will eventually get better and everything will work out (somehow!) if I can only hang on a while longer—nevermind it’s been years and I’m just realizing how stupidly wrong my perception of the supposed connection has been this entire time.
Inertia is not an alchemy one can use to force a worthwhile and fulfilling relationship from someone who has made it entirely clear by his words and actions that what you have was never that, was never going to be that, could never be that.
Tl;dr: I’m 30 years old. I don’t need this shit.
End of Day 6: 378 words.*
*Mostly story notes rather than actual fictive output but at this point I’ll take it.