A tale of the wintertime blues….

These are the tough days. The same work that had promise in the morning bites anatomy after the sun goes down. After dark, I am as afraid to look at what I’ve done as a kid who’s afraid to check out monster country under the bed.

At what point does a book die? When is the prognosis too discouraging to go on?

A work that inexplicably succeeds and fails by turns carries two truths inside it. And the inability to decide between the two is debilitating.

Is it as good as I’ve hoped; as good as I’ve worked so hard to make it be? Or is it Dorian Gray, a monster hidden behind a pleasing exterior? Is the problem found in that perhaps I’m not inclined to like anything right now—about anything? That I have isolated myself into a creative coma in this solitary life of mine? That I am speaking a hard truth to myself? That I am suffering the winter doldrums? That the book has been in front of my eyes for waaaaaayyyyyy too long? That I have been sucked into the vortex of unfairness of the recent events of my life?

What would I be if I cannot be what I am?

Enough. Enough. Work and perspective are required of me, now. And focus on the good and the right, as microscopic as both good and right seem to be right now.

Work hard, Lynn. And focus on tomorrow.

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