Apologies, to start.

One of those days when I’m not quite sure what I have to say. Or to offer. A day where I’m feeling the coffee a little too much. Where the raging ions of the storm-that-didn’t-happen and the too-eager wind seem to sting.

It’s a free-floating anxiety kind of day. Nothing I can tell myself today will come to much good. I’ve been working very, very hard; wringing myself out over it. There are a gazillion words out there, a billion-gazillion combinations and ways into a novel’s plot…and I’m feeling buried under the pile.

No excuses, no self-pity, just fact.

I’ll distract myself with the weekly trip to town for errands. I’ll put my head down and give myself to the work. I’ll use the feeling to latch on to the emotionality of a scene in rewrite; to better understand a main character’s “not-ness.” I’ll find the forgiveness in me for me.

I remind myself that it’s okay to have an emotionally muzzy day every once in a while. I’ll give myself a break (and hope that you will, too) for a post that’s not much more than a waste of time.

And I know that in a minute or an hour it will be better.

Who knows why days like this happen. Who knows whether they happen more to creative types than to others on this planet. What I do know: One can ride these things out, but one can’t surrender to them. We might feel the coffee, but we won’t let it rule us for long.

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