[Fiction] A break from my novel

So I had enough of writing my novel, and wrote a piece about my feelings at the time because I had A LOT of doubt and mixed feelings about it. I haven’t worked on it in about 10 weeks…

Do you wanna know what’s torturous? Not knowing what to do. Or in my case, not knowing what to write. I sit here staring angrily, blankly, with blatant confusion and frustration, forever trapped within this writer’s block Hell. Tied to this chair of unmotivating failure, my keyboard-worn fingers clawing at the arms in desperation, craving creativity and desiring just one idea. Just one fucking idea. My writing is shit, my ideas are shit, it’s all shit! My book, my poems my stories, never even being able to taste a long-listed title. Why? Because it’s all shit! Calm down you may say, you’re only eighteen, you’re not published yet and have a lifetime of opportunity. You’re a university student and have been writing ever since the fax machine had an actual purpose. I remember jamming a DVD into the fax when I was six.

Yes, yes I know, hopefully I have a blessing of seventy years on this planet and I’ve written enough to match the contents of the Oxford English Dictionary, but it doesn’t mean it’s good.

No one likes or liked my work. My teachers didn’t like it, judges don’t like it, I don’t like it. I as a matter of fact HATE my writing and HATE that my naivety got the best of me in high school, thinking I was worth something. I dream of accepting awards for my “exquisite” collections and transcending artwork in the form of metaphors and overused, pre-modifying adverbials, hoping to be as influential as Orwell. In my head, I’m on the pedestal, thanking my family, friends, boyfriend or girlfriend, for making it possible. I’m thanking the people who took the time out of their precious lives to read the shit I churn out. I’m sincerely smiling and ignoring the blinding spotlights on centre stage while mocking those who didn’t think I’d make it. Well perhaps they’re right…

And I snap back into reality… I’m still sat at my desk not knowing what the fuck to write.


I want to throw my laptop at the wall. I want to tear each individual key out of the machine’s gums, taking pleasure from each click and clack it makes. I’ll throw one of my three two-day old mugs at the screen, mutilating its face and removing this Word document from my strained eyes. After writing sixty-eight pages of my dystopian novel, I have decided that I hate each page within the document. I hope a virus infects my computer and I’ll never see such mockery of story writing again, I shall apologise to Orwell, Atwood, Burgess with this sinful novel as it puts you all to shame. To even label it as dystopia! I deserve to have my eyes plucked from my sockets; my right eye being sliced in front of me while I watch with my attached left.

Is it bad that I’m jealous of authors? My teeth sink into that dream of publication so hard and so vigorously that my dream becomes a life or death situation. It’s no longer writing for pleasure but writing with forced eloquence to be noticed.


To my abused keyboard, I’ve had enough…

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