Paging back through my entries, it occurs to me. I hate my writing. No really. Like, hate it. I'm embarrassed. It sounds contrived when I don't mean it to, and that is the worst kind of affliction. And I don't know what to do about it. Fuck me. What the hell kind of writer am I supposed to be when my shit is trite and emo?

Words are my life. If I don't have the talent to sustain myself on them... what the hell am I supposed to do?

I've fallen into another book, but this one I'm afraid I won't pull myself out of so easily. Damn you Of Human Bondage and your grim outlook on an individual's place in society...

ink :: graphite