Fuck, fuck, fuck. I watch a show on comic books and, of course, Michael Chabon is on. He’s young. He’s in his 30s and he’s written at least two novels and many short stories. And what the fuck do I do? Bitch about myself. Complain about what I’m not doing, but not do anything. Cowards die many deaths. That’s what I am: a coward. Either that or I have no skills.

How is it that I can write pages and pages of this shut but struggle to write a single page of a story? I have no fucking idea. I need to let go. Accept what the universe has given me and transcribe what it shows me. I have never been able to draw. I can copy well enough though I could create what I see. That’s what I have to do: create what I see. Extrapolate and change the world that I see until the story is there. Use what I know and write about that. Stop this bitching and this forming of cultivating words. Stop the censoring. Just write. It will get better. Open and write.

I’m sick to my stomach with my failures. I don’t knopw why I bother. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t tell stories. I can’t see things. I can only repeat what I’ve already seen. Everything I’ve ever wrote about has been repeats. Why can’t—no, why don’t I just give up. I’ll turn my website into a Blog and leave it at that. It is too late. I realize that now. Sun sets and night covers my vision of what could have been during the last days.