me: this will be a tiny funny fic with mind-reading Sam and horny Dean the fic: FUCK YOU HAVE 10K OF PURE ANGST FEST

I chewed my therapist's ear off about the beauty of (sibling) incest to such an extent that she brought me an inspirational quote from Jung on the subject

I don't even know what triggered me this time. I'm just standing in the middle of the kitchen crying my eyes out about the finale into my writing cocoa and wondering how the fuck I'm supposed to write my two season 5 WIPs now when all I can think about is the fucking barn.

finished editing my first case fic (set in season 3) and am wondering why I hate Dean so much if I love him so much.

imagining Castiel’s reaction to the brothers hunting biblically accurate angel Kylo from one of my kylux cryptid AUs and swearing on Mary Winchester’s grave that I will NOT write this fic. I refuse. seriously. no.

life update: finally done with my post-cancer check-up, everything’s fine, just a tiny benign thingie that should go away on its own, now I can forget about all this for another six months 🥳🎉

I was jotting down an outline for a new kylux fic for huxloween and damn it was hard not to type ‘Sam’ or ‘Dean’ whenever I needed a character’s name, even though it’s canonverse kylux. if you stumble upon either Winchester in my next kylux fics, know that I’m sorry.

tonight I will be thinking about these two moments for no particular reason (except that they both tear my heart to pieces).

wait I figured it out: I just don’t identify the work I do for my writing as work because it doesn’t feel like a struggle but feels like I’m having fun instead, and “real” work is supposed to bring pain and misery.

I often feel like I'm not putting enough effort into my writing, which means my writing can't possibly be good. I should be putting together character sheets, plotting meticulously, editing ruthlessly, but all I do is jot down images in my head one sentence at a time.