I’m in a funk, right now.
Maybe it’s the long nights of winter. Maybe it’s the endless tedium at the day job, or maybe it’s just the latest mid-novel slog.
The thing is, I am making progress. I’m writing. I’m revising. I’m even typing those pesky handwritten pages that seem to multiply around me.
Morale is low. Rations are running out. I’m pretty sure I’m getting trench foot.
Here’s where I have to stop, and look at what I’m doing, and try to track down the reasons for why I’m feeling like I’m treading water.
So, I woke up one day, and realized just how close to the end of my current project I actually am. Oh, there’ll be revisions, of course. And I may change things up a bit later on. But yeah. I suddenly know how the thing ends, and how soon it ends.
My revision project is also flying by. (I have to get a segment in tonight, so that I can mark off my square in my bullet journal.) There’s a shape to the thing, now. A direction.
I’m a little behind on the blogging, or I would be, if I had any kind of set schedule to begin with. I definitely did intend to update you more often.
I’m not getting enough sunlight. I’m eating the wrong vitamins. I don’t have any direction in my outside life.
Why am I not a doctor by now? A lawyer? Uhm… one of those guys with the pointed sticks who picks up litter in the park? I struggle with that kind of thing. Visible achievement would be nice.
Maybe it’s the annual barrage of holiday letters, all neatly sanitized of any kind of insecurity or doubt. Yup. All the children are above average, people. (BTW, never take a road trip to Minnesota with a Garrison Keillor fan. They sell the CDs everywhere.)
Oddly enough, the other idea that occurs to me is…
I haven’t been rejected lately. I should start sending stuff back out.
That would probably make me feel better.
Yes, I’ll go take some more fish oil, now.