I can feel the creativity dwindling away inside me. Maybe it’s the quickly approaching end of the semester, or maybe it’s the grinding trudge of my every day right now, but I’m worried, I must admit. I’ve been cheating myself as of late, barely half-devoted to my craft it seems, and though I’m grossly aware of this rut I’m in, I can’t seem to escape it. I think I’m too worried what those around me will think if I write what I know I need to write. And so I don’t allow myself to be all-in, which is problematic because I’m an extremist—I either kill myself in pursuit of my goal or I don’t go after it at all. I’m in something of a stalemate, I guess, but I’m beginning to wonder why I care so much about people around me at all. I think as a writer you have to be selfish, at least to some degree. You have to not care, in service of your craft, about hurting people, which makes it difficult to care for them at all. At least for me. And I’m not sure I can accept that.