Sunday, November 6


I'm pushing myself to write today. There's a feeling of dread. Does what I write matter? Am I just repeating myself? Am I just repeating myself? Is there anything worth writing about? All my inspiration seems mundane and monotonous, but I promised myself to write every day for the month of November, and so I will. Yesterday I wrote a short scene. It was fun to write and easy. But today? Today I'm pushing. I don't know what I want or what I need to get over this hump. I just know "this too shall pass."

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