Some days I don’t feel like writing.  But then I know what that means.  It scares the shit out of me. 

I’m not the best writer.  My stories could do with more work.  My WIP needs more work.  There will always be someone out there better than me, with far more interesting ideas.  Probably considerably better looking too.  And with one of those Instagram perfect butts.   I swear to god, if I see that peach emoji one more time…

There might be clicky, mean spirited, judgey types who just don’t like my face or my name or where I come from and decide to reject or ignore me in whatever way possible.  Maybe they’re insecure.  Maybe I’m insecure.  I AM insecure.  I don’t actually know them. 

In those terrifying moments when I don’t feel like writing, I remind myself that this feeling is temporary.  It isn’t going to last forever.  And it doesn’t. 

But that gaping black hole of no purpose, no direction, not tired and yet the opposite of energized.  That depleted and flavorless void threatens to take me somewhere I can’t afford to go to.  Where I sense but not hear my own screams. 

I try to fill it with food and booze but such pleasures are agonizingly fleeting and I am a greedy monster who comes from a long line of greedy monsters.  I have the feasting tendencies of a Roman emperor. 

I am at times, my own emotional vampire. 

But it can and does pass.  Eventually the wretched monster within me sleeps.  Eventually I’m satisfied. 

And I realize that the only wholesome thing about my actual person is my writing. 

I’m not the first to say that writing saved me. 

But it did.  And it does.  And no matter how hard I try to ruin everything, writing never leaves me. 

It’s stronger than my demons. 

So, ignored or shunned though my work may be called by those who matter, it’s pretty bad assed. 

I’m scared. 

But more importantly, I’m pretty fucking scary.