I killed someone yesterday. It didn't come suddenly, I had planned it for awhile now. I knew how they would die - or rather where the body would be found (to tell you the truth I'm waffling a bit on the cause of death, not that I want to revisit it any time soon). But the whole ordeal is making it difficult to handle. It's pathetic in a way that I'm so mopey over a fictional character, but I know I'm not the only author who has experienced the same. Christ, right now I'm listening to sad music - REM: Everyone Hurts, Portishead: Roads, Pink Floyd: Comfortably Numb.
I know the next step. I have to face the denial, the anger, the ensuing violence (which should really help, to tell you the truth). I just don't want to do it, even though I have a million thoughts running through my thick skull. I'm so desperate not to continue that I'm actually doing research.
I guess I'll have to deal with it soon, especially if I'm going to meet my quota. It just seems like the blank screen is blanker than normal, the sisyphusian effort to push the giant boulder of writer's block up that hill is sisyphusier (wow, that was strained). Everything looks much more inticing than writing - I'm even willing to watch back-to-back marathons The Wiggles and The Doodlebops.