Frustration. Frustration. Frustration.

I've had a horrible weekend. I took the entire three days to get writing done, and I spent most of it staring at the computer screen. I managed to revise and perhaps add a few pages to a ten page section of my book, and I hate it. I feel like a failure. I feel like I'm wasting my time. I feel like I'm trying to cram my damn book into some fucking shape that I don't fucking want to cram it into. I am so sick, and so tired of this fucking MFA program. I just want to toss the whole god damn manuscript into a fire pit and burn it, then toss the computer in, burn that, then delete every online version of this novel I've ever created, eliminating it totally and completely from the earth. I AM NOT HAPPY. I AM NOT MOTIVATED. I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS OR ANYTHING RIGHT NOW!

I just want to curl into a ball, and stay there. And sulk. And feel bad for myself. If I could run away, I would, but since all my problems seem to be in my head, running away isn't going to do me that much good. I need to turn in a fifty page section on Thursday, and I have a fifty page section, but I know the professor will hate it, because it's everything that he hasn't liked in the last section. And... what? I don't know. Does he know what he's talking about? He's worked as an editor, so probably. He went to Syracuse and published his book of short stories. I think he's a narrow minded fuck knob, but what of it? My opinion doesn't make him wrong. Being a narrow minded fuck knob doesn't even make him wrong.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Shit.

I ran this weekend, Saturday and Sunday, to try to calm myself down, which it did. I calmed down, but running didn't do anything for my writing, as it normally does. I'm absolutely despondent.

What am I even doing? I'm so sick and tired of my family moving on with their lives and me just sitting around trying to get a book published. One freaking book.

And you know what? The problem isn't that I can't write it, it's that I won't allow myself to finish it. I keep tweaking so that I never have an end product. I keep thinking I need to change one little thing, and of course that thing makes me change another thing, which makes me change another, ad naseum. I trashed the entire first version of the novel by doing this. I wrote a second version, and now I'm obviously trying to write a third. Not revise. Oh my god, I have to stop rewriting this thing. I just need to get the damn novel done. Finished. Send the damn thing out, flawed and imperfect as it is. It doesn't matter.

I'm tired of this. I'm going to finish writing this, and I'm not going to do a good job. I'm just going to get it done.