It’s all garbage. Hurkey-jerkey pace. Confusion. Gaps. Can it be fixed? Should I bother? Who cares anyway?
Thought I would poke my head out of the garbage pit today to say I’ve been buried by my internal critic. Sux.
Today I’m slipping past the slimy banana peels with legs covered by coffee grounds. But hey, I’m above the garbage. It’s still garbage, but it’s my garbage. I don’t even think it’s compostable, or recyclable. I find myself hovering over a barge of garbage set adrift in rough seas.
Can this thing I’m writing ever be worthy of being read? By even one well meaning person. ugh. I think I need a helicopter.
I need some real progress this weekend. I’d like to send these three chapters off to my editor by the end of the month, but…
I suppose most writers feel this way sometimes?