I've finished Carra's autobiography. I plan on finishing 'Wicked' next. I haven't picked up 'Evermore' since Monday. It's progress.
I booked my tickets for Oxford. My dream of sitting at Frank Turner's feet is getting closer and closer.
No one is texting me back. Well, except for Craig. He's sweet, even if he is a total love rat.
I keep having the most wonderful dreams, but when I wake up I feel so empty. I guess I might as well face it - I have the dreaded block. Everything I write is awful (or at least I think so). For non-writers, this is something that you have to experience to understand, but I'll do my best to describe. It's like mental constipation. The ideas, the desire, the need, it's all there. But it just won't come out.
It can make a little writer like me feel very, very sad and frustrated. If I can't write... it's like the world just dulls. Lately I feel so dull already, now I'm mute. Boring and voiceless.