Again and Again. 2/17/2021

I'm ripping my hair out. I do that once it gets long; the ends have been ripped and split. Sometimes, I catch myself running my fingers through the knots as I sleep, breaking and tearing them. I have to put on my beanie just to stop it. 

I'll never have healthy hair.

Also, like my hair, my thoughts and confidence are scattered all over my keyboard.

It's been five days. Five days since I've written my book. I finished that night with a thousand words and would have completed more if Google Docs hadn't started lagging. All that momentum crashed and burned. I'm sitting with the tips of my fingers hovering over the keys, struggling to rewire my brain and get back into the game. It's HARD.

I firmly believe that there can't be any breaks once you start. When I say I'm struggling, I MEAN IT. My brain is like a cement mixer. It needs to keep being churned; round and round it goes. If it stops, everything becomes cement, and I can't produce a coherent thought. 

I think I need Adderall. 

I want to say I'll write after this. A goal of 500 words would be admirable for tonight. Hemingway was 500 words a day type of fella. I'll dine with him tonight, chugging down thick lagers and smoking big cigars. 

Pass the ashtray, will ya?

Edit: 12:41 a.m.

I wrote 700 words. I feel good. Now, fuck off.