I currently have three unfinished, half written books. I can't seem to get on with any of them. I'm at a loss where they go, what happens next. If I can't tell stories, I go a little crazy. I feel like I turn into a shadow of myself, a misty, insubstantial, moody phantom.
I can't write, I can't think straight. I have being stuck here, unable to get where I need to be.
I will never forgive the destruction of my pond. Nobody appreciated what that spot meant to me, to my writing. I'm yet to find anywhere that inspired me the same way.
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