I have a friend who describes our cloudy, gray, miserable New England Days as "D Days", as in dank, dingy, dark, etc. All those not so happy D-scriptors.
Today, weather not withstanding, was a serious D day in Lesser Apricot land.
The drive that has seen me through a hundred more pressing engagements, compelling me to sit in front of the current draft come hell or high water (power outage, microburst, brawling children, lego-studded cyclones of filth, etc) deserted me today.
I like to say that I write better when my time is compressed into 4 hour once-a-week chunks (This is how the bulk of Family, Genius, Species, came to be) and so maybe the issue is this sudden wealth of time-- a rare long weekend with few obligations. Whatever the case, it's positively profligate to let all this time seep away underutilized.
.... And yet, this is exactly what I did.
Doubt? Oh, boy yes. Doubt is a cyclical thing, coming after the cheerleading phase (This thing is really coming along pretty well...) and the high (Wow! Is this the best novel ever or what?) and the hmmmm (Didn't notice how my plot just falls of a cliff here in the last 3rd). In the doubt phase, one starts to wonder what the heck she was thinking spending two years (two **#@ years!) on a hookless, plotless, uninteresting piece of schlock.
Dirge-worthy, another D word, comes after that. And Depths of Despair-- well, not really.
hard to tell from the drama of this post (Drama, being yet another D) but I am pretty even keel about the whole thing now. I recognize the D days for what they are: Part of the process. I pat myself on the back for all the laundry I've done and and the two point uptick on my mysterious "word IQ" and move on.
And, as Scarlett says, tomorrow is another day.
1 comment:
Looks to me like you created a whole blog during your wasted long weekend. You layabout!
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