Ohio

Here I sit in my room, half-empty bottle of Louis M. Martini Cabernet Sauvignon to keep me company, and I realize that the sun is coming up (that wretched, piercing, incessantly predictable source of headaches, retina damage, and skin cancer). I've got no work done on my stories, no work done on my games...games, there's a joke. I'm attempting (key word) to build a campaign setting for a game system published by a company that quite rightfully couldn't be bothered to send copyright lawyers if I outright published my current work and tried to charge money for it (it's like pining for the girl in high school even though she's the only one who knows you're gay, you figure it out)...and my other "game" is a non-system set in a non-setting with no end point in mind.

I spitefully digress.

Having sat here all night, watching a movie that turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable, I find myself having spent no more effort to write than if I'd simply bashed two forks on my space bar repeatedly until the computer rejected the input. Because it's just not there. At least, I don't think it is. It used to be, my brain tells me. My memories tell me of a time when I would be able to sit at a computer and just start typing and things would flow from my fingers to the keyboard and everything would be perfect. Yet the evidence before my eyes is that the older the "created on" date for a particular file of my work gets, the more I hate the file's contents. So which is the truth? Am I running out of inspiration, or is my memory rose-colored?

Maybe inspiration isn't the right word. I have plenty of inspiration; I get ideas all the time, they come from everything around me and I'm never generally short for them. I just can't seem to get myself to actually write anything. Even when I do get a good idea, I don't end up doing anything with them. It's as if once I have a thought, my mind is content with having thought it up and any desire to see it through simply washes away with the excitement of the initial discovery. Maybe I'm just a lazy white American who's never had to really struggle for any reason that I didn't set up myself. I highly doubt my self-imposed difficulties, any of them, can compare to something over which I had no control.

Fuck, now I'm just bashing myself and wallowing in self pity. Fucking wine and sappy movies.

Bottom line; I've got no work done, the stupid sun is up, I've got a D&D session in eleven hours and I just wish I was in Japan.