Such an extreme dreamer I've been in my life. How can it be I've never really written a true, completed story?

Other than being nothing special really when it comes to finding words and such, what happens when I'd sit down is, I'd just be blank, and then some junk would come out. I'd end up typing stuff that was just me literally talking to myself and so on. And that place. That stupid blank place. It's like a void. The writer's idiot void. Every few years I'd go there for a bit and slowly die out there in that void, then retreat from writing for a few more years.

It's time to return to the void. Unfortunately my job is such that i really can't manage to go back for 30 minutes 7 days a week. But I should be able to manage 4 days a week.

Just 30 minutes to start. See if a month later I'm still successfully managing to sit in that void for 30 minutes 4 days a week, or even perhaps doing a bit of actual writing instead.

Reading Harumi Murakami, What I Talk about When I Talk About Running.
Has some writing insights.

In the past people have talked about how one just has to sit down each day and write, and I rejected this notion because writing absolute crap, doesn't seem to me to serve any useful purpose. Perhaps though over the years my young relatively empty mind has become not quite so empty. And I will find less void and more actual meaningful direction, now.

I will at least try to have far more patience in the void.

Also was reading Storm Front by Jim Butcher.
In truth the only thing keeping me going is that a past gf loved it. And is asking if I read it. And I feel a bit bad to say I stopped a short way in. But it just has such a typical detective/private eye feel to it. I don't know. Everything's a bit too surface for me. Somewhat along recent lines with all the light vampire books.

Also The Witch and other stories by Anton Chekov, which interestingly has very much the same feel as Uncle Vanya. Doesn't have escapist decadence though.