I’ve had weeks, even months, when words streamed like water from my fingertips. This is not one of those weeks. This is a week where I know what I need to do – revise two chapters and write the novella’s final scene – and I know what what needs to happen to execute that plan but when I sit down to do it, lifeless twaddle comes out. Lifeless. Twaddle.
There are a variety of reasons for this, none of them important. What’s important is that yesterday I sat down to work. Today I sat down to work. Tomorrow I will sit down to work. I don’t make the mistake of thinking my emotions about my work ARE my work.
I will also get chai lattes and reread some fabulous Anne Lamott and write in my journal. I will cook dinner and nurse my sick husband and put my son to bed. And maybe tonight but for sure tomorrow, I’ll sit down and work.