I was in a truly foul mood for most of the day, which was unfortunate; somewhere in the tangle of what I desire and what I demand of myself and what I can realistically achieve and what I actually achieve, there lurks a monster that occasionally tries to eat me. Sadly, the monster is not a raccoon, although I admit that I don't particularly want to be gnawed on by one of those either. And I know that my staggering ambition is one of my biggest strengths and one of my most fatal flaws - I would probably be a warlord if I enjoyed riding ponies across Asia, or a serial killer if I liked to collect ears. But since I'm less bloodthirsty than that, I'll have to settle for wanting to write a lot of kickass books and occasionally having dark, despairing days when it seems that the words will never come and I can't get anything done in any area of my life, save for making tea and putting on pants (towering achievements).
C'est la vie. Today got better in the end; I spent most of the day despairing and moping and trying (and failing) to get stuff done for the day job. But sometime around six, I flipped over the 15-minute timer on my desk (I just bought it at CB2 because they finally had a color other than lime green for the first time in years, and I'm in love), and I forced myself to write in my journal for the fifteen minutes that it took the sand to fall through. And I actually came to some pretty calming realizations that enabled me to pull out the cards for Thorington's book and work quietly and calmly for another hour. Then I talked to Terry, ate some peanut butter, I read all of a pretty terrible young adult fantasy novel straight through - it was probably a waste of five or six hours, since it really wasn't very good, but it did help to clear my head.
And now I'm going to go to bed to the sound of the foghorns, and hopefully wake up tomorrow with a clearer heart and the drive necessary to walk out and seek the story at a cafe or on the water. Goodnight!
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