My writing morale, for various reasons I won’t get into in a public post, has been pretty low for a while–another round of that self-defeating, self-perpetuating cycle that I daresay any writer who’s been at it for more than five minutes knows all too well. The only real cure for it is to just do the damn writing, and the simple fact that I’ve had an R&R to finish for a while has been enough to keep the morale from vanishing entirely.
So I dragged another 250 words out of my head tonight for Chapter 18 of Lament of the Dove. Even this tiny number of words has felt like an effort, but I don’t want to think of it like that; I’d rather think of it as a victory, tiny though it may be. And I’m going to write tomorrow, dammit, come hell or high water, gods willing and the creek don’t rise, etc. I can commit to writing tomorrow. Even if it’s twenty words. I will write tomorrow.
But now I have to go to bed.
