Writer’s Block Has the Best of Me and I Start a Writing Workshop on Monday

I can’t write I can’t write I can’t write I can’t write I can’t write and it’s making me crazy. My life is an endless mess of started and never finished essays, of ideas I’m too lazy to follow through on, of frustrations.

My journal seems to be the only place I can write anymore. When I try to write anywhere else, I try too hard and the words come out all forced and mangled and misshapen. My journal is a freedom space.  If only I could figure out how to recreate that.  If only my ribs didn’t hurt.  If only I weren’t so lazy.  And if only I could remember that I’m better than I used to be and give myself some credit for that.

It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write and so I’m desperately reading essay after essay to remind me how and I’m failing. It’s scary. I’m afraid I’ll never remember, or I’m afraid that maybe I’ve read myself to death, over thought it all to the point where I’ll never be able to write again.