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.



I’m starting to revert back to night owlish ways – sitting down to start writing for the day at night (often after midnight, like tonight). Got to keep an eye on that – I need to try to maintain a normal work schedule. Because I don’t have a real job with a schedule or structure right now, I could see myself slipping real easily back into old habits, writing until 3 or 4 in the morning, then sleeping in to 11 or 12. No bueno.

But for tonight, I have to stay up at least a little late, as I didn’t get any writing done at all yet today, and I can’t go to bed until I have (also, I’m just not even close to sleepy yet). So now I’m here with my glass of red wine and a candle lit, and I have to churn out a little bit of something. 

Okay, stop blogging now. Go get some actual work done.