I started off this lock down period pretty well. Two weeks in, I thought I was nailing it. I had a schedule, a routine, and a goal. But having all of that will only prepare you so much for the maddening frustration that being stuck in a singular place brings. I am not someone who needs to travel a lot, however, I do enjoy movement and there is only so much of that, that I can do in an apartment. I have danced and rapped along to the Hamilton soundtrack, I have done Yoga, jump rope and a variety of workouts. I even made some average spaghetti with my own red sauce (it was more pink than it was red, sigh)

Now, I am undoubtedly more privileged than those who have it much worse right now. But that is why I am trying to make the most of it. Yet, as I try, for the umpteenth time today, to just figure out the central conflict of my story (see previous post for more on this), I can’t help but question the pointlessness of it all. I am stuck but even if I wasn’t, would I be able to write then? Why do I keep trying to write? Maybe I am better of doing something else. This is the point at which my brain reminds me that I am not capable of doing anything else. Which makes me feel motivated on some days, because then I need to write to survive, but on other days, it just makes me feel hopeless.

The most frustrating thing about this much self-doubt is that I don’t know if its in any way justified. Am I right in doubting my skills as a writer? Am I just making excuses for being stuck? And if not, how long should I be taking a break from it all? Uncertainty is bad enough on its own but its crippling when mixed with self-doubt.

My plan for now is to try write for the next twenty five minutes. If I make progress, I shall carry on. If not, I shall watch The Martian (because I can) and figure the rest of the day accordingly.