(This post was originally written on 750words.com. It has been edited.)

I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. It’s too much. Every day it feels like too much on top of too much. I can barely keep up. I get home, and all I want to do is lay in bed in my pyjamas with my laptop. I don’t even want to write. I just want to read fic. It’s not even particularly good fic. I’m not even rereading favourites. I just want to escape into another world for a while, and that’s the easiest way.

But that’s the problem with fandom, isn’t it? It’s always the easiest way. It’s what I was trying to get away from. At this rate, I’ll never write a novel. They say you can do it in the small hours, carve out the time if it’s worth it, but, god, I just want to read. I don’t want to write. I just want to collapse. I don’t even have the energy for music. I’ve been laying here, sitting here, vegging here since 7pm. That’s four hours. It’s been four hours since I got home.

I’ve read a lot since then, but what did I like? Maybe two stories. That’s all that’s good enough. It’s not good enough for me anymore. Although, every time I say that, type that, someone writes an amazing story that drags me back into fandom. I just wish I could write that amazing story. I wish I could write any amazing story. I don’t want to write something just because it might make a series or a film or a bestseller, or all three. I want to write what I want to read, because when I look at the shelves out there, the things I think look interesting are few and far between.

I’m just about halfway to 800 words. There’s it is. I should stop complaining now, and write about some good things. I’m not having any trouble getting up in the morning. I’m making a ton of money. I’m in love with my iPhone. I have so many stories I want to be writing. It’s such a good problem to have. The thing is, it’s still a problem. The Henry made me want to write some blatant Shakespeare love. I actually think he doesn’t get enough blatant love. Everyone tip toes around it because they think he’s too obvious. Well, he is, but who cares?

I want to write something unashamedly inspired by. I want to rip him off because I love him. I want to write about a travelling band of players, living in a caravan. They put on plays. They have drama off stage, too. I want it to be Elizabethan, but also modern. I haven’t figured it all out yet. I figure I need to take care of started stories before I start another. God knows when it would be done. Not any time soon. I always think I should finish the one with the most words written, but it doesn’t always work out like that.

Sometimes, all you get is 606 words. Not today, of course, because I have to make it to 750, at least. But I don’t think I can take anymore. My eyes are falling shut. I need to sleep. It’s already too late. It’s already a whole day gone by. I can’t believe how fast they’re going. Slow down, time. I’m not done with you yet. I have so much more I want to do. I want to finish a novel. I want to support myself.

I want to keep my ideas alive, even in the face of failure. That’s what’s great about writing. Even when it isn’t going how you want, no one has to know. Not yet, at least. You can get away with silence when people know you’re a writer. They shut up a little, too, because they believe every word they speak will have meaning. That’s what I hope, at least. We could all use a little luck.