I think I must have some sort of disease. There is the desire to write in me, but when I put my fingers to the keyboard, or my pen to my journal, nothing comes out but a few pretty lines. Pretty lines which mean nothing... well, they mean nothing.
I am frustrated with myself. This novel was supposed to be the one that I would see through, the one that I would pour my heart and soul into, and it would show. This was supposed to be my achievement. But I can't do anything right. The other day, when i was cleaning my room, I found my first draft mangled and bent among some shoes. What does that say about me?
I am in need of inspiration. I will endeavour to find some, but I don't think I will find it here.
Please take a look at the work of my good friend, Austen, who I have asked to help me with cover art. He's a busy boy, so I don't know if he has done any yet, but his work is really spectacular and I want more people to see how good his attention to detail is.