Combatting Paranoia

Obsessive? Who me? Never. Self-doubt never crawls through my mind like a million marching ants, hungry to consume my soul by first devouring my brain. And I never feel as though every writer on the planet is wittier, more eloquent, more talented, and just plain better than me. Of course, this is a lie. A lie I must tell myself when I'm feeling down. Like now. When I'm convinced that I am shit, less talented than the most talentless hack. When I'm convinced no one likes me and the space my body occupies is wasted on me. When I'm drowning in a torrent of negative thoughts that continually rain down and refuse to go away.

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Silence of the Pens

It's no secret; the silence of my pen has lasted too long. I could quote excuses--my cat of 17 years died, I got two new kittens, both of which take up considerable time and attention, I started a new job--but at the end of the day, I know I could've made the time. So, why the hiatus? The answer is simple: for whatever reason, the creative juices simply stopped flowing.
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Acceptance

Over the last month, my pen has gone into seclusion, not for lack of ideas or imagination, but as a result of life itself. Roughly five weeks ago, I lost my cat of 17 years. Needless to say, the loss devastated my spirit, leaving little energy for creative endeavors. With the house feeling lifeless and desolate, my husband and I decided to adopt a new kitty just one week after laying our Boo Boo to rest.
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