"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open up a vein."
I've been in a funk the last few days; thus the failure to check in yesterday. Yes, I've written. But it's been hell. I'm only nine days into this project and already the "What's the point?" voices have begun. I didn't think they'd arrive so early. Just when I said that I was strong enough to write this book now, and also that I was experiencing a quiet calm as of late, the voices come along to try to prove me a liar. Well, fuck the voices and the depression they rode in on. I'm gonna keep writing. Even if it kills me.