I know every writer, every person out there has experienced it.

You see, I’m having a bit of a pity party, but it’s going to have a happy ending even if it kills me. I’ve been in a real slump the past few months. I’ve been tired and sad, and mentally exhausted from my soul-sucking day job. And I’ve given myself every excuse not to write.

But it’s all on me. I know that. I let stuff to get to me, stuff that really doesn’t matter. I let a bunch of shit affect my writing… or not writing to be more accurate. And now, I’m saying, fuck that. If flowers can grow from shit, if a good pile of fertilizer can make them bloom beautifully, then so can I.

And if what I write sucks, if it’s shit, well, it’s okay–at least, to a degree. I’m doing this for me. And that’s all that matters. Wish me luck!