I am having one of those nights where I 'what the fuck is the point' my way through everything and it's probably winter blues again but fucking SERIOUSLY.
I'm 6k words behind on NaNo. Not doing anything tonight will mean I'll be 7.5k behind tomorrow. So? What the fuck is the point? No-one's gonna read it.
I keep oscillating violently between "create art for you and stop being so demanding" and "the whole point of art is be experienced" and -
It's like if I'd managed to go through with my original goal of being an actor, on the stage, right? I memorise my lines, get the beats down perfectly, shove every ounce of emotion through me and out into the audience, and when it's time for curtain call...
... nothing. The audience are there. I can see them. They're right there. Not a clap. Not a cough. Not a fucking sound. There's no indication that they actually heard anything I just did.
If I wrote and wrote and wrote and never shared any of it with anyone that'd be one thing, can't expect a reaction from an audience of 0. But I'm sharing it, again and again and again and all I am getting is deafening silence.
This isn't a guilt trip. Or at least, it's not intended to be one. Some of you reading this will feel guilty, and I'm sorry for that. I've been here before, been at my wits end before, raged and screamed and cried over this exact thing before. So it's not a guilt trip, just a remix of a repeat of a song recorded off the radio.
Goddamn I want to be able to write and share and not have to beg for scraps of attention.
What the FUCK is the point.