I’ve been trying for more than a decade to be happy. Ever since my second child was born, I’ve been taking various cocktails of medication, trying to get to a point where my days are eights and nines instead of fives and fours. I have depression and anxiety. Don’t know if it’s severe, but it feels like I can’t get it better. It wasn’t because of my second child that I started meds. It was because my job stability was suffering. I had had three jobs since graduating from college. One I was laid off from. One I was fired. One was a three-month contract that didn’t hire me back…
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I know why I’m having trouble getting motivated to write. When a story idea exists in your head, it is perfect. It’s maybe a bit nebulous. Maybe it’s not a 100% from beginning to ending story. But it exists in a perfect state. It has no flaws. The characters are exactly who you imagine. The imagery is exactly how you expect it. No clumsy wording muddling things up. That creature you imagine? He’s perfect. He does everything you expect him to. He acts like you want. His pleas have the right tone. Your leading girl looks the way you want. The action is tight and quick, photographed and animated exactly…