He sat staring at the blank screen, the only thought going through the writer's mind. It was Neitchze who said: "if you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you." You are not kidding!
He'd spent days gazing idly at the blank screen, once he'd had dreams of writing about the worlds he's created, now all he could think was "Is it worthwhile?"
The more he thought about what he could be writing, the harder the task became for him to write. He found his mind was locked in a downward spiral to oblivion; the venue he'd fought to avoid now loomed large in his sight. For years, he'd tried to convince himself that what others had said about his writing was true. Was he truly a good writer, or were they just being kind to stop him from falling apart? No matter, it didn't help now, even if he was a good writer the drive had gone. Where once dwelled the flames of passion now had turned to an icy cold that no flame could change.
He began to wonder what stage of Dante's seven stages of Hell he'd reached since he convinced himself he was not any good at writing? He knew where the root of the problem is, he'd chosen not to chase the trends others had done for years. He'd always said: "I'll sink or swim on my work," and he had died a lingering death over the years while those who chased trends had prospered.
He sat thinking, "I've said many times I'm my worst enemy, how true that is."
He sat and smiled remembering how he was an award-winning writer several years ago, not that winning the award meant a lot to him. The biggest impact it had was on some of the people he used to chat to online. They turned away from him after the award, he hadn't changed, but their views of him and his victory turned them sour towards him.