Today I’m angry. Angry because I can’t make myself write. Angry because my writing sucks. Angry because I don’t have an inner voice, or a compelling reason to write. Angry as a symptom of depression.
No reason to be angry; and every reason to be angry.
I have no writing space. No software is going to magically make me a writer. I don’t even know why I want to write. I just always have. It was the 1st job I told my mother I wanted to do when I grew up (around 6/7 years old, at the time).
I spend most days sleeping. Sleeping because of boredom. Bored because nothing interests me anymore. I just don’t know how to break out of the funk.
We’re poor now. Partly because I have been unable to hold down a job. There are no phone calls for interviews anymore. Too many holes in my work history, and I’m getting old. Not much time left (and even less money) to develop a new career. 20 years ago, this wouldn’t have been a problem; I had lots of time then.
So now what? There doesn’t seem to be a solution. My road ahead looks mostly dark.