Book

I'm trying to write a book and I've hit the wall at only 34 pages. Everything sounds like a cliche. The story's stupid. I want to take it outside and burn it, only it's in digital form and I don't want to waste the paper to print it out.

Ugh! Frustration! Why can't I just be a writer, poof, with a grand and beautiful way of expressing myself? Why I'm I trapped in my own lethargic mind? Why? Why? Why?

It feels so good to wallow in self pity sometimes. Not right now though. I don't want pity, I want to write. I want to get published. I want a lot of people to read my work and pay me a good deal of money so I can buy that loft I want and spend all day writing on my rooftop deck (in the summer) and all night rehearsing for that next great play I'm in.

Is that too much to ask? This is America! All our wishes and dreams come true here, right? That's what Disney taught me. Don't dream it, be it. Wait, no, that was Rocky Horror. Same sentiment.

I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do. It's literally the same drivel page after page after page.

Look, I'm not attempting the next Great American Novel here, but if I can't write something at least as good as those stupid, poorly composed, Sookie Stackhouse novels that True Blood is based on, I may actually just keel over and die.