I wrote in a little notebook that I won’t let myself write because deep down I don’t believe it’s worthwhile. I accepted that and wrote a list of things to do, little things I am supposed to do somewhere down the line. And then I got up and did them. Three hours later I feel great. Weirdly great. Like I took an antidepressant or did a line of cocaine.
Maybe I should just accept that I’m a practical person instead of trying to make myself into an artist.