Kyle was pretty sick last week, so I couldn't write as much as I would have liked; it's hard to get up early when you've already been up multiple times in the night with a sick child. Fortunately (for both of us!) he's better now, so this morning I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 to get back to it and had one of those painful, crappy, discouraging writing sessions that makes me question the wisdom of attempting something so difficult and beyond me.
Predictably I'm now wallowing in yet another gigantic, self-indulgent, muddy funk. Charming.
Logically I know one of the reasons I had trouble today was because I haven't written much this past week and have gotten out of the habit. And I also know that soon (maybe even next time) I'll have another one of those exhilarating creative experiences, where I'm so jazzed about how it's all going. But logical, rational thought doesn't drive away my current feeling, which is that I am ridiculous for spending so much time and energy and hope on something that's never going to be as good as I want it to be.
Still, the masochist in me is eager to sit down and work on it again. Even if the process is painful and discouraging sometimes, I can't wait to get back to the story. (If for no other reason than the hope that a more positive, productive session will obliterate this nasty funk.)
Up and down up and down on and on and on.
Here's hoping that the next up lasts a good, long while!