Bump.
I have figured out one very important thing that keeps me from successfully producing decent writing: references. My [perhaps irrational] fear of mucking up some fact in a fictional spin is enough to keep the very, very thick and very, very high wall strong between me and beautiful, luscious, juicy inspiration.
I lack the experience and knowledge to fuel more than three quarters of my multiple plots. I have so much I want to do beyond simply reading about things like scent-detection or the subtle magic of creating perfumes. My brainstorming thoughts are becoming more disjointed and more vague by the week. If I keep this up, for sure I will lose yet another skill I’ve striven to culture since childhood.
Yes. I know I am holding myself back. I don’t know why; paranoia, maybe…that incorrigible niggling in your gut that feeds the darkness and despair in your mind that tells you how useless you are to even bother trying.
Some days I just want to let it all out and scream like a madwoman. I feel so stifled by my own inadequacies and expectations, so used to getting things right the first time. I have a certainty that this frustration will one day kill me. I just know it.
This isn’t the reason why I can’t sleep, although it plays a small part. I am thoroughly convinced that my brothers are plotting my death, or are waiting for me to snap, or kill myself. I don’t think I’ll give them the satisfaction. So instead of being rudely awakened at an ungodly hour for the third day in a row, I am simply staying up.
..and I will crash in the middle of the day.
Yes. 4am is an ungodly hour for a person who indulges in sleep.