Time to get back to work.

It’s been a largely unproductive couple of weeks.

I hit an impasse, thought I needed to go back and revise, lost steam, and floundered, am still floundering.

I’m sick with a cold right now and it’s late at night, and I have to write something towards my novel before I go to bed tonight. I have a hot whiskey with lemon and honey steaming in a mug beside me, and the neighborhood is quiet. I’ll get some work done tonight. Have to start making little steps forward again, gain momentum once again.

The fears and the excuses have grown a little louder in this writing-quiet time, but I have to shove them back down and keep working.

Time to start checking into this blog again to keep myself on track. I spent the past day outlining my story a bit, getting a better idea of its frame and where its headed. We’ll see if that has any impact.

This is a lonely job. I haven’t gone out to lunch or coffee or anything with a friend in a while. I think they probably all forgot I exist, by now.

Feeling very mopey and sniffly and sore-throaty. Time to sip on my hot whiskey and focus on words, instead.

Waxing and waning.

512 words, and my stomach is a week old croissant, all tough and tied up in a knot, and I feel like I’ve messed up everything with this story, and like nothing is right, and like none of them are the right age, and like I’m trying so hard, and it’s moving so slowly and it’s just moving so. slowly. and what if I don’t finish it? And what if I hit a slump and I just give up and I don’t finish it?

The stomach is a month-old croissant now, a hard, doughy lump plopped in the center of me that I can’t shake loose. I just have so much anxiety tonight and I can’t stop thinking you idiot.

Things will look better in the morning, I hope. The sun always gives things a better perspective. The moon draws out the shadows, lets your worries play against you. I’m hoping things seem better in the morning.