First time in, what, twenty-five days? Or is it twenty-seven? Close to a full month, and I’ve blown it.
I wrote all day at work in my physical journal, in between calls and with different colored pens. I wrote about five pages longhand, around 900-1000 words, ranting mostly, about the inconsequences and trivialities of the hour. Nothing exciting, just necessary.
Then the plan was to come home, cook dinner, and write. Had my laptop open. Wrote a sentence on the short story. Then nothing. Even went to bed early, the dinner not settling all that well in my stomach and thought maybe being away from the television would help. But nada, zip, zilch.
So while I wrote, the words don’t count, and frankly I feel too ill to care.
I’m resisting more each day, like I’m about to climb over a long-standing wall and I’m only a few bricks shy but now I’m looking at each one of those bricks ‘cause I don’t want to take any chances. That brick’s mortar is too loose. That one will cut my hand. That one is too slick to hold.
Gotta get over the wall.