A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-One-Hundred-And-Forty-Four

I am still struggling to get my work done earlier.  Tonight, I say here for a long while just trying to get started, distracting myself with anything and everything that was not my writing.  With effort, I know I can get myself to start the work, so I am the one choosing this, in some way.  It is not as if I haven't pressed myself to do writing at times when it seemed difficult, or when I was less than inspired.  This isn't a matter of being blocked, it is more about my feelings in the moment.  I am quite scared at the moment.  I feel as if the only way to get the changes I want in my life is through finding success with my writing, and I know I've not been able to do that yet.  Even more, I don't know what I can do to make progress towards that other than what I have been doing, and what I have done so far doesn't seem to be working.  Each time I start work, I can't help but think of the amount of work already done.  I have described it before, the feeling of it being some kind of hoard that I am keeping, and each new piece is another addition to it.  I don't feel good having it all just sitting there.  Each time I write feels a bit more pointless, another bit through into the stockpile.  I know that is not a good way to view it, and it is not as if I don't feel a sense of accomplishment at the work I've done in and of itself, but the one does not contradict or controvert the other.  I need to figure out how to shift this, but I know that it can't be changed by my altering some mental framework.  The idea of feeling better without material change in the circumstances causing me the problem is absurd.  I have known that for a long time, but what am I supposed to do?

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