in which the novel becomes meta-fictional and questions its own purpose

i am getting kind of despondent about this blog. or is it me i'm despondent about? fuck, i don't know. certainly it's not what it was. but neither am i what i was five months ago. i am not sure who is failing whom here.

my writing is turning to crap. i am a novelist at heart and there is no plot arc, no character development, no evolution here. just a slow spiral down: more desperation, more insanity, more isolation. i can see where this is going; i have read this one before. i have lost rhythm and cadence. i have lost the music of my words and without it my head is blaring a melancholy silence that is at times deafening. i find i am repeating myself too often. same words, same phrases, same plot. wasted, wasted time. only my titles are gaining strength.

this blog is going in circles and i'm saying less and less intelligent things as each circle grows tighter, closes in on itself. i'm feeling trapped and useless. i hide myself behind pretty words but my pretty words are dissolving; they're becoming dark and frantic and i cannot imagine you want to read such things. certainly i am hesitant to share them, raw and bleeding as they are. and certainly i do not want to see them, admit them to myself. how much of what i write is fiction, anyhow? how much of what's happening in my brain is merely my subconscious's boredom? am i really fucked up or is this all still just a game?

i just want answers and there aren't any. i just want to eat fine and i can't. i just want my head to shut up and it won't.

i have lost my way, i have lost the plot, i have lost myself somewhere in all this.