I've sunk into a rather shitty depression. It started Friday after I wrote over 1600 hundred words in my novel on Thursday night and then wrote a measly 117 words on Friday night. Tonight I still wrote 150, but knowing the truth now about still having what it takes to really make a story move? These tiny bits of output feel pathetic. I'm not getting any younger and I've wasted so much already. And YES. I DO know why this is happening to me right now. I DO. I did something stupid. I let New Guy see the story. He has asked about my fiction before. He seems to think he can get some kind of insight from it or use it to help me somehow. So I sent him the work in progress. But I shouldn't have given it to him. There was something I did not consider before doing it and now I know why all this is happening to me. He is the most dangerous person I could have shared my fiction with. I would rather have an agent or an editor tell me I suck ass as a writer than worry what New Guy might be thinking of me as a person on account of my creepy story. And I can't tell you what this is doing to the little girl and to everyone. And why would the little girl be so devastated that I have given this story to her 'mother'? Because of what the bio-mother did to her when she presented her with the very first finished product at age five. The mother did not like the story. She scrunched it up and started screaming and calling names. Stupid, liar, crazy, bad... And this was not the only incident of the mother's hatred of the fiction. She visited it upon me again after I finally gained back the courage to try again in adulthood. More names. Morbid, sick, evil...

I shouldn't have given him the story. The knowledge that he has it is fucking things all up in here. It's making me want to quit therapy. I cannot risk hearing bad things or fucked up questions that might lead me to imagine personal disapproval. Not from him. Checkmate. I wrote myself right out of my therapy. Nice job, eh? Who says unpublished writing is unproductive?

I can't wait until that bitch gets murdered in one of these stories. It HAS to happen. And there are two psychopaths in the current work who could surely settle her hash without even breaking a sweat. I'm going to turn them loose on her. They will find it highly entertaining. The bitch is going to get what's coming to her. And yes. It WILL be sick and morbid and crazy. Oh, yes. It will.

Attention fictional psychos: OFF WITH HER HEAD. Shut up that screaming shrew once and for all. Go get her, boys.