As I was reading these graphic novels and books, I started to get really emotional. At the time I blamed the books. It thought it was the words and the subject matter, but on reflection I realised it was my inner critic taking advantage of me when I was feeling vulnerable.
I was finding it almost impossible to find the time (and the energy) to write. Generally I would struggle along, doing bits and pieces of writing here and there, on the train to work, the occasional evening, or when my inner critic got angry enough I would shut myself away with the intention of just writing for the whole weekend. But intentions are just ideas and even after this enforced solitude I would often feel that I hadn't written enough. This lack of productivity was enough to charge up my inner critic and there I was again, falling fast back down into the black hole of creative block and general despair at my writing-self.