You go into it with the best of intentions but then there are problems at work and problems at life and that all gets tangled up in the pervasive/constant emotive bullshit you’re always dealing with* and illness because your immune system demonstrably wants you dead for some reason and beyond that there’s the paralysis of potential inflicted by all the shiny new ideas you’re having that you should really be either documenting for later or just ignoring because they are not even this story for godsake.
And time. Insert your favorite cliche here about how it doesn’t wait. It just doesn’t.
So now you’re at the end of this brilliant/gorgeous idea you had with your brilliant/amazing writer friend and you don’t know how it went for him—you’re guessing not well, since the daily progress emails stopped coming after you had that conversation towards the middle of last month that was something like: “I’m sick and I kind of want to die. Fuck writing. Fuck everything.” / “No. That’s not cool. I’m sick too. Why do our bodies keep trying to kill us? What is this hideous evolutionary detriment I can’t even.”—but how it went for you is you have yet another scattered collection of half-formed ideas and another butchered storycorpse to throw on the pile with everything else you’ve started and never finished.
When failure stops being a useful motivational tool, there’s no point in failing anymore.
End of Day 61: Fuckall accomplished.
*In my head this sounds roughly like I hate my job I hate my life blah blah chemical imbalance blah and I realize other people have real problems but we’re talking about me right now.**
**Which is obvious since I began this post with “you.” That makes all kinds of sense.