I began to write a lot more once I realized there were no rules. There are no guidelines, no suggested topics, no requirements. Once there was no demand for a great novel, the blank page in front of me invited mindless scratchings, short stories, endless possibilities.
I'm not always happy being happy. I'm not satisfied with nothing to complain about. Without drama. Without conflict. Without something to write about.
But then I realized something important. One can write about anything.
I love you, but this is kind of upsetting. Everyday I go into a dark place, thinking of everything that's gone wrong in my life. Everyday I struggle with depression so much that I don't really want to even live anymore. I'm jealous of those who have perfect lives.
ReplyDeleteThink about that for a while.
you need some help, previous commenter
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