A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-One-Hundred-And-Twenty-Five

I am thinking about how much difficulty I had with getting to work on writing the play for my recent submission. In truth, it is similar to the delay I've had many recent nights with my writing in general, and so I think it is worth exploring and unpacking. The root of it, I believe, is a sort of fear. In the case of the play, I felt too invested in the outcome of getting it accepted. I've been feeling such a lack of real opportunity, and it is not something I know how to shift or change or even face. The only positive change I can imagine would be the sense that I do have real opportunities and am taking steps that have direct impact on my progress, and not my progress in creating the work itself, but in my career. I've been told, of course, many times, to focus on the work itself, but this doesn't help me. For one thing, the work, to me, is not completed by my writing it alone. What matters is the interaction with the intended audience. It is not about my putting the words down, that is meaningless as an act in and of itself, and doing it day after day feels meaningless to me, at the moment. I know it has the potential for meaning, of course, and I suppose I do believe that will occur, or at least have hope for such an outcome. As well, I cannot see a way to change my goals and shift that focus which isn't a definitive act of failure for me. The problem is, I am feeling more and more of that fear, and it pushes me from doing the work itself. A part of me feels that it is a waste, and another part just feels afraid at investing more energy in this, at continuing on. I am aware of the sunk cost fallacy, the idea that stopping what one has put so much effort into and moving away will mean losing too much, but this is also about what has meaning to me. I don't see another path that I want, that would not feel like I was choosing to abandoning a core part of myself. This response comes up when I consider focusing on other kinds of work besides my writing, even when I think of continuing to pursue writing in that scenario. I want to feel that I am working towards something of value, and the only work that could have value for me is my writing, but that value is not something I can provide to it myself, that must come from the work having a life in the world.  I wish I didn't feel trapped in this way, that I could even entertain just writing without considering the rest, accepting the act of creation as an inherent good and reward, but that cannot be for me.  I can't imagine myself as such a person without feeling a sense of dread, as if an essential part of me would have to die.  I need help, but every time I ask for it, I am told to accept what I know is already destroying me.  The fact that I am having such difficulty with getting myself motivated on a daily basis worries me deeply.  I know it is a small symptom pointing towards a larger malady.