“God damnit, get out of my head!” is what I want to scream at this novel (aka Work in Progress or WIP).

It’s been in my head too long. It’s become like a slow killing infection. My thoughts are consumed by it, my imagination is drowning in it, but it refuses to come together. It fights every word I write. It throws temper tantrums at every piece of the puzzle I solve.

When I think I finally have the novel solved from beginning to end, a giant sinkhole appears and I fall into it in despair. When I finally crawl out of it, covered in my own shit in the making and feel slightly victorious, a falling meteor knocks me back into the dark chasm.

I’ve had conversations with the characters, in my head and out loud. I know what they want, but like that incessant child saying “mummy” on repeat, when I snap and ask what, they look at me in lost in confusion. Don’t I love them?

I’m frustrated. I’m lost.

Writing has always been an integral part of my life. I’ve created worlds on paper since I could hold a crayon and have created worlds in my head since I could imagine. What use to bring me joy, brings me frustration and sometimes hatred. I don’t know how to get the love of writing back. I’m not even sure it’s possible.

Maybe it’s mental. Maybe it’s spiritual. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe it’s just me.