All this whatever

For the past few weeks I've been thinking and rethinking my story from various versions and perspectives, and after shedding several outer layers and evolving a few times, it has finally unfolded to reveal- absolutely nothing.

I was so obsessed about writing about a mute boy who is loved by his family, but at the end of the day I realized that his muteness simply added no weight or flavor beyond the extremely heartwarming and tear-jerking scene I had kept planned for the end. Craptastic. Just don't have enough angst inside left to force it out convincingly. Damn you, contentment. Damn you, satisfaction.

It's so much easier to write when you're burning with something. And it's so much easier to burn on anger or pain or the unintuitive substance of inner emptiness. Darkness is the quickest route to power. Or something like that. Argh. Suffering. Madness.

DAMN YOU TRONDHEIM. CURSES! MALADY! BARRGH.