How can I write when I can’t live?

I have been writing a story about what turns a person into a killer. Not through some immediate and life altering event, but by tiny little forks in the road. I want to show how it happens slowly over time, a lifetime of missed chances, poor choices, and perceived slights (real or imaginary). I want to also show how the character (who has no name) is given opportunities at each turn to be a better person, or follow a different path. Yet it is the decisions he makes that lead him to becoming a monster. I don’t want to ignore the characters killings, I want to hint at them show them in news clips and headlines. This is not about the hero’s journey-this is the villain’s journey. There are no excuses for this man, there is no sympathy gained, in fact you should be by the end of it, convinced that had he chosen to do things different he could have but he chose to go down the road from shy pre-adolescent kid, to adulthood made decisions that led him to become a monster.

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I also have a story of a man who has study mystic arts for centuries, through alchemy, science, and sorcery he has become an immortal being who can travel through dimensions of both time and space. He is what Dr. Strange and Dr. Fate have always wanted to be. He is a member of a group of mystics who seek through by means to travel between higher and higher dimensions. They hold the secrets to the universe. And while or main character was once one of them he is now an outcast for a past transgression that remains a mystery. He is persuaded through dimensions both higher and lower than our own, and sometimes our own by a group of fellow travelers. His only ally is a woman whom he gave the secret of immortality to. He encounters her through-out time and across worlds. At times he can trust her at other times he cannot. This leads him eventually to the highest dimension where he becomes something else entirely.

These are but two of dozens of stories that I have been writing. In my head of course, for some reason I have found it difficult to use my hands. I am getting too old for this; I have to force myself to write if I ever want anyone to pay me to do it. I can no longer continue to get up and work some shit job for no pay and neglect what it is I want to do in real life. I just feel like I have nothing new to say, and I feel lie I have no reason to say anything. I have utterly failed in this life. I have not accomplished anything other making an as out of myself. I can’t hold down a job, or maintain a relationship with another human being. I’ve made a mess out of everything I touch and wallowing in despair seems to be the only thing I’m good at. I want to tell stories but what right do have. I don’t want to entertain people or make them happy I just want a job that doesn’t require me to put on pants or leave the house. I haven’t left the house in two days other than to go around the corner and by some smokes as it is. How can I follow through with writing a great story when I can’t follow through with a mediocre life.

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