anger_frog

The last few days have been sadly unproductive. I thought I got back into the writing groove, but I've nothing more than a couple headaches from starting at the blank screen to show for my efforts. The first book flowed so easily; several hours could pass by with my noticing that night had turned into morning, and I would be 12,000 words closer to the end. Now it takes a Herculean amount of will just to muster 2,000 in sitting, and even those sessions have been in short supply.

Ironically, I seem to have no difficulty filling this journal with several paragraphs at a time. I used to be able to write in context to myself and my own experiences, but lately there is no effort involved. If I was currently under contract to write an autobiography, then there would definitely be nothing to worry about at the moment. Fiction used to be so easy, but now even my dreams are bland and repetitive.

I think after I fulfill this contract, I shall start looking into other avenues of literature. I need to find a project where I can enjoy greater creative control, since I think the parameters set upon me for the last two projects are suffocating my imagination. Also, next year has to be the year I leave this place, since another problem is that this place is wearing down my creativity along with the rest of my mental faculties. I only wrote the last couple chapters of the last book while living here, and I seem to remember that dragging at a snail's pace as well; the remainder of the book, the parts that flowed, was writing while living a better environment. It's just yet another reason to find those greener pastures.