For the Love of Tuesday

Last night, I looked at a rough play outline I composed a few months ago. A new play. Rather, a play I've been kicking around for 5 years that I've never gotten serious with. I was pretty pleased with this outline a few months ago. Now, it looks like a bit of a lot of crap. Tee hee!

I hate being a lousy writer. Everytime I think I'm okay, I get reminded of what a bad writer I am; a bad writer who tries very hard NOT to be a bad writer. But people can see through it. So I just need to make more of an effort.

Voice in Malice's head:
You're a bad writer and nobody likes you and you're ugly and everybody hates you and you don't know what you're doing and nobody wants to be your friend and you're not fooling anyone and you're going to be alone for the rest of your fucking life if you don't change everything right now... and even then, no promises, you human loser!

I need to sleep more. It'll be much easier on my constitution.