Day 1 of work

I drive myself crazy. Where do I begin, what on earth do I say next, how do I get this story off the ground and why is something so simple becoming so hard?

I remember my early diary days and reading it back now I see no difference in how I write. Ten years has done nothing! The stories are always changing but the style is not and by this I am perplexed.

Who wants to read this anyway? I ask myself. But that is not the point. I want to read it and anyone else is welcome to also. A writer’s duty is not always to entertain, or educate, but imprint words destroying the mind, letting the page carry the burden. Imagine if these thoughts were just gifted away, all that negativity, all the broken energy that wears us down with time.

Where do I begin? I want to write, I try to write, I stop writing and my head starts to hurt. Too much information!

Maybe I should stop trying to be content with my work. I should stop trying to impress myself and maybe that way more will get done. I don’t believe in making wishes but if I could have just one, it would be to have more belief in myself. This shield of mine protects me from the prejudice without, but it is little use to my battles within. No one sees the agony of the mind when I am working away, no one but the page understands the need for peace.