It must be time to face the music. I’ll never be a talented or successful creative writer. I don’t have it in me. All I have are fleeting ideas and spotty daydreams. I should learn to enjoy that at least, instead of wishing I could make something out of it.
I spend so much of my anxiety times thinking about how I waste my time doing things that don’t produce anything. What’s the point of watching TV and playing games when you have nothing to show for it, or haven’t learned from it? You can show that you’ve completed crossword puzzles and once I’ve finished a Smithsonian or NatGeo magazine I can recycle them. I can update my GoodReads followers when I’ve read a book, I can fill up a journal with thoughts and poems, etc.
Now, I want to turn daydreams and the weirder, less violent/sad dreams into creative writing even just for personal use. But I can’t make longer than a page before I’m out of ideas. Not to mention the focus it takes to write even this much is crippling. My brain isn’t meant to make stories. Not good ones, anyway. Or long ones.
Just gotta face facts.