Your alarm is going off.

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Writers’ block tries to get at you like hypothermia. You cycle through bouts of determination and frustration until y`ou become lulled into a warm, sleepy complacency and almost convince yourself that you don’t even want to be a writer that badly, and you’re totally fine with sliding through life being a regular person who never suffers from blog anxiety and can enjoy a conversation without pausing to compulsively take notes. Writing is HARD. What kind of lunatic does that to themselves? You just need some rest. You don’t have to live like that…

Except you do. You do have to live like that, because it’s the only way you can live. Your heart beats to the rhythm of clicking keys. You don’t just write; you are a writer. It’s what you are.  As long as the stone cold fear of life passing by unnoticed and undocumented still jerks you awake, you’re going to be ok.

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