Sunday, November 4, 2012

nanowrimo—day 4



I hate writing. If I could alter the chemicals in my brain to be addicted/obsessed/passionate with something else, I would. Why do I want to write? Why do I want to write a novel? What's the real reason? Am I writing for others—an audience? Or am I writing for myself—so I can feel important and accepted and fulfilled? Either answer sounds awful. What are my real intentions for putting some nouns and verbs and excessive amounts of articles, et cetera, onto a blank piece of paper? I just don't get it. It intrigues me beyond measure—to write, yet with every word, every sentence, every paragraph—I feel like a conceited, self-gratifying, attention-deprived asshole.

Oh yeah, and I'm dyslexic and I write as slow as a constipated tortoise—therefore, this writing fixation that has been instilled into my soul, drop by drop, must be a result of God's obvious disdain toward my very existence.

In other words— No. NaNoWriMo is not going very well for me.

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