There’s so much emotional baggage that comes with writing, I don’t even know if i enjoy writing anymore.
It’s like I can’t do it. I’d write a few hundred words, and stop. Let me tell you, a few hundred words is not a novel.
I worry too much about whether I’m using too much of the same word, whether there’s variety in my sentences, whether I’m using the right POV, whether I should use past or present tense… The list goes on.
It’s like I know too much about how to write (because I read too much), but I don’t know how to write anymore. It’s such an irony.
There are no more images bursting out my head and onto paper, no more inspiration, no more drive.
Just a bunch of plot holes, and 20000 words I can’t even use. It’s all some kind of version of the beginning.
I don’t even know if I’m writing because I like writing, or because I have nothing else I can actually do.
That is a lie. I can take photos. Make videos. Make websites. Make yummy Hakka Abacus.
I feel like my writing is repetitive and mediocre.
Too. Much. Pressure. Given by myself.
And my parents asking too much about my plans which I mentioned before.
I want to go back to when I didn’t know any of the rules. And break them. Or not. I just want to write a good story.
Help. (I need to write something useful for this blog too.)