I’m getting more and more frazzled that I don’t have a place to write anymore.
Do you know where I get my best words-per-hour these days? The bus. The fucking bus on my way home from my day-job.
I’m distraught. I’m not sure I can think of a better word. When I discovered that I really enjoyed writing, and gave myself the goal of finishing this novel, my depression evaporated like nothing that therapy or medication ever did. The year I’ve been doing this has been the most peaceful, drug-free, and admission-free of my teenage-adult life.
Now I don’t have my own space, or really anywhere I can think to go at 6am to write… well, I’m not feeling as held-together as I used to.