I have the word “WRITER” emblazoned on my laptop’s background. Whenever I feel tempted to revel in self-pity, it acts like my drill sergeant:
Get your face out of the dust. You’re a writer. You take this shit you’re dealing with and you make it into something every literature professor fifty years from now is going to want on their required reading list. No excuses. Did Virginia Woolf make excuses? Did J.D. Salinger make excuses? Sit down at that keyboard and make those negative emotions into beautiful, aching words or go find another profession because if you can’t do that you sure as hell aren’t a real writer.