I have that dreaded disease that writers do not name for fear of getting it. It lurks about us in a dreadful fog of Real Life and Other Responsibilities. It is more feared than flu and colds. I will only initial it: WB.
I want to cry. Why now? Why? I have so many things going on for Harry that nothing else will do but for me to try to write the next chapter, but it came out pathetically short and rather, hmm, bland. I wrote something bland! It's just not fair. It really isn't fair. I've been good to that story, lost sleep over it, researched persnickity little items that only gave it more depth...and it betrays me.
I hope that it ends soon. I can only hope, as every other trick I have to get it to go away has yet to work. At least the blog proves that I can still write, but the dreaded WB on "An Aunt's Love" is creating a lot of...anger towards fanfiction in general. Why do I feel the need to write such a story? I don't know. It's there, and it wants to be written, so I answer the call. Stupid story.
I really do love it. I do. It's practically my baby, but all the same, it's a very whiny, annoying, attention-demanding baby. I doubt anyone would blame me if I just chucked it all.
On second thought, I think I would have to go into witness protection if something like that happened. Some of my readers have death threated me more than once. Chucking the story would be a bit like prodding an ant hill with a stick. All the same, not something I would care to try.
I'm off to try to sleep. Perchance to dream. Or write. Keep your fingers crossed and hope that something happens that breaks me out of it.
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