I’ve been staring at my computer a lot. If I do manage to type something, I will usually delete or loathe it by the day’s end.
Writer’s block doesn’t really cover what I’m feeling, because it’s not really a block. A block implies something complete and impenetrable, and this isn’t. Someone recently said that writer’s fog is a better way of describing it. Just a cloud that you are stuck in, everything hazy and unclear. On a good day, I can make out a shape or two.
I will invariably hate the shapes I make out.
“Everything I write is trash,” I tell Rand with a sort of self-indulgent loathing that surprises both of us. I had always thought you had to be confident to be this insufferable.
“It’s not trash.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“Maybe take a break,” he says gently. And I wonder how one can take