I always thought I wrote better when I was depressed or suicidal. I had the idea that my thoughts were somehow grander and more... important.
My thoughts were pretentious.
My thoughts were the ramblings of a girl who needed help.
Let's not forget the fact that I barely ever wrote when I was depressed. Because I was depressed. All I wanted to do was lie in misery and die. Putting pen to paper? Fuck that. No. Give me something self-destructive, like a knife to my skin, or a bottle of pain killers. But self-destruction wasn't my reality. No, my reality was what I made up in my head. In my head I only cut myself because I was a tortured artist who wrote grand soliloquies about life.
Recently I did something that I really hate. I became manic on Tuesday
and woke up on Thursday with hazy recollection and some serious reprehension.
[oh shit what have I done??]
I'm not too stoked on myself right now,
but instead of wallowing in to a shame-spiral I'm going to focus on what got me through the tough times in the beginning: writing.
[TO THE KEYBOARD!]
I don't know if anyone reads this blog anymore, because I haven't written anything on it in awhile but
I'm writing again. I'll try to post some of my writing on here too. I've written a bunch of the next book for Rue Bourbon Supernaturals because you guys voted and I DID LISTEN! I also have it on my mind to write a sequel to Beast. I didn't think people would like it, it was just my fantasy that I decided to publish, but it's my best seller. No one says anything about it out loud, but you're out there! I know you guys are! ;)
[Beast readers being called out]
So that's we're I've been. Peace out readers!
PS: If anyone's wondering, I was listening to the arctic monkeys when I wrote this. Hence the title.