Am I still a fiction writer? The stories begin in my mind. Scenes. Ideas. Characters. But they come to nothing.

So many daily anxieties. Fears. Getting through, coping with daily life, is already too much for me.

I’m frozen in the headlights, when it comes to functioning, including as a fiction writer. I reached the stage of trying to write straight on to blog posts, instead of into the Word type packages I use, given that Microsoft fail to provide the Word packages I purchase: not even going there, honestly.

I see other authors with huge backlists of published novels, and it nearly killed me to write and self-publish one. I feel like screaming. Why can’t I do it? Still?

I definitely feel that the lack of support from many of the people (notably, family members) around me – their consistent negativity or/and cold indifference – has got to me. But why haven’t I used it as fuel for my passion?

My depression is winning. My mental and physical health are at an all-time low. And yet, I must remain positive online. Which is exactly what this isn’t. This blog post isn’t positive at all.

If you can’t run, walk. If you can’t walk, crawl. If you can’t write a novel, write short stories, flash fiction, poetry

I need to write, and yet, I don’t. Am I still a fiction writer?