I get stuck because I try to map out every dip and turn, try to write an ending, literally and figuratively, before a beginning even exists. So I don’t write, but with the energy that I could use on writing, I worry instead. There is a blanket of depression and anxiety and frustration covering over everything, and I blame anything within striking distance — specifically, the usual suspects of my husband, our house, and the entire town of Grand Rapids, both its inhabitants and its civil offerings.
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