Another attempt

 I'm not at the library today, I'm doing this at my house to see if I can do it. I had a major breakdown after I wrote all that stuff yesterday. The fact is that I'm not Stephen King, never will be. I don't know if I can be better if I try to write for thirty minutes each day but I want to try. I think what I want, more than money and recognition, is a work I can be proud of. Something to stand the test of time when I'm gone to the afterlife. After yesterday, I nearly had a breakdown, but I felt better today. "Felt." That's the right word for it. Because after the high I got from my amphetamine I had a drop. Now I feel like my writing is crap and I have no motivation to do it. I just want to get better so I can accomplish my dreams. Whatever those may be. I called it my "Post emotion morphine." It's like the painkillers that go into your body after you hurt yourself. Maybe there's emotional ones too. I don't know what is happening to me. Just that I seem to be getting better, than worse. Maybe it's the medication. Maybe it's me. Maybe I don't want to be a writer anymore. Maybe I want to be a cheerleader who helps other writers get to where they want to be. That sounds foolish. 

I've checked my emails for other job offers as my time off is coming to an end soon. I can't live off of my parent's money forever and I need to make my own money. I just wish that I made more so I could do less. Does that make sense? I'm pushing myself to write every word here and it hurts. After tearing myself to pieces the other day, I felt like reading some of the help books I got. Like Stephen King's "On Writing" which helped me a lot. I always feel full when I read Stephen King. Like my brain is being fed good food. Almost like studying but better than that. The information feels like it's flowing in naturally like a stream of cool water into a basin. Gradually the basin fills up more and more and then I have to take a break. Just like that metaphor, I take a drink every day to help with my writing. 

I talked to my mom today. She seems concerned about me. I'm glad she cares but when there's nothing people can do you just want to push them away. Why ask for help when they can't help you? I'm also nervous about contacting the other writers. What if they don't respond to me or worse, respond in a negative way? I have enough anxiety so I don't need more of it. People can be cruel when you get to know them. They put on a mask and some how, I'm able to chip away at that mask with my winning personality until the ugliness is revealed. A sad state to see other people in.

I'm making a list of things to do. First I'm going to watch the rest of the videos by Brandon Sanderson. I want to be the next Sanderson. I want to write four hours every day until my fingers fall off the bone. I want to be able to think like a writer. So, today I'm going to try to contact another writer and then I'm going to read The Artist's Way by Cameron. In fact, her idea of writing for thirty minutes as a warm up is one of the reasons I'm doing this blog. I just wish I could do this when I'm feeling better so that I could write more. I'm pinning my value on writing and that is starting to hurt. I don't really have a life. I have two friends, a sister, parents, and a few coworkers I interact with. No girlfriend, no first kiss, no first date, still a virgin. And that's not all bad but I'm so used to the "narrative" of what happiness is from fiction that I feel like I should try to achieve that level. In reality, life can be cruel and lonely. I'm so addicted to the "happy endings" that don't always occur in real life. People die without fulfilling their goals or dreams. Some get into drugs and waste their life. That's one of the problems is that I'm always compared to people on the spectrum instead of "normal" people. What is normal anyway? A good job, a financial plan, a wife and kids. I don't know what normal is anymore. I don't want to fritter my life away playing games.

Look, when I was a kid, I always thought I'd be a game designer, or a movie maker. I thought about stories and loved how they were made and wanted to be a part of that world. Eventually, I realized that I knew nothing about film or game design. But I liked reading so I thought that maybe I could make something of myself if I dug in a little. That didn't seem to happen. Instead, I feel like I obtained a useless skill. I remember a pastor telling us this story about how he wanted to be a pitcher but couldn't throw a curve ball. Without that skill, he couldn't be a pitcher. There's nothing more devastating than learning that you can't do something even if you put your heart into it. Another victim of the "you can do anything" fantasy that's cemented in fiction. That fiction is seared into my brain. Sometimes I feel like Bojack Horseman who thinks the world is like a sitcom and that everything will turn out ok. But it doesn't always happen. People die, get robbed, get hurt. And you don't know what to do to help them besides put your hand on their shoulder and let them cry. It's a sad world that breaks whatever hold fiction has on my mind. I think that's enough whining for now. I need to get to work after this break.