I feel all washed up as a writer. (I’m trying to stick to my 300 words a day minimum imposed by Anne Lamott from Bird by Bird, so I may ramble a bit.)

Why do I think I’m all washed up? Because I wrote one novel, and I can’t seem to write any others except for this effed-up teen series I’ve been working on for the past couple of years. Sure, I can almost always pump out 50,000 words every November, but that’s only when the story has to do with my teen novels or characters in some way. And trust me, they are poop in the same way that Fifty Shades of Grey is.

Hmm… maybe that means it’ll sell at least.

I’d like to write something original like my first finished novel (revised and edited). My finished novel has been in the works for the past five years. And if that won’t sell, but an agent likes my writing style, I have nothing of serious consequence to offer other than total garbage.

I have ideas—tons of them—that I just can’t seem to capitalize upon. A drama about budget cuts in the library (boring), four wealthy women whose lives radically change (book club material), an interracial couple that falls in love during the 1960s (historical romance). I read a ton of books so I should be pregnant with ideas, right? But somehow, I am barren in the brain and the womb.

I don’t mean to sound defeatist… well, in fact, I do. I feel defeated. I feel about as hopeless about giving birth to a new novel as I do about giving birth to a child. I am currently infertile in more ways than one.

Francine Pascal is my inspiration for writing, if that tells you anything. Perhaps it would do me some good to reread some Sweet Valley and remind myself why I liked the series so much. (Or why I find it to be a poor excuse for literature in retrospect.)