I’m naturally lazy. I admit it and I’m not ashamed of it. I can get shit done when I need to, but I won’t be busy with it until, well, the need arises. Or inspiration. So I have to admit that doing 70k words without inspiration is a fucking chore. There’s no fun in it, even if there was a spark of brilliance here and there. The book in progress — Rjg — is good. Better than anything I’ve done before. It is full of wonderful characters, with vibrant setting and twisted plot. Yet when writing becomes a chore it is not something I’m thrilled to do, so I had to stop. For a month, for two months, and look back at where did I go wrong. Why something I loved so much became a living hell. It’s not my first book by all means. I’ve successfully finished projects before. I’m not burned out, am I? No, not really. Depression is something I’ve lived and worked with before, and I was doing well enough. But it’s not just the book. I can no longer produce even my worldbuilding articles, which I had been creating for fun.
There’s something I forgot the meaning of: inspired writing. Now it feels like walking into an empty room and partying alone. There is something in my brain that is not right. It doesn’t tick. And I’m well aware of it. And from creative standpoint it is terrifying. Because in all honesty I don’t know how to fix it. Excitement doesn’t spark even when I’m reading, reading things I would normally love, be entertained with.
The world is still colorful. It is full of meaning. Nothing is different outside. But it is no longer inspiring.
It is depression. Somehow it got worse.
I will probably continue to write things, through hard work alone. But I don’t know what will come out of this emptiness. Maybe I could use it to create somehow. That’s the only thing I can think of right now.