Most of the time I’m fine. Or, if not fine, then managed. I’ve carried my writing for years on work ethic over talent – better to get it down and rewrite it – and if I were one of those writers that insisted on waiting for inspiration, all that would happen is that I’d watch a whole lot of Nick at Night. And not even the good classic TV reruns.
Today, however, I’m not doing so well. I’m feeling pressured and overwhelmed and what’s even worse? Because I work for myself, I’ve done it to myself. I’ve had trouble sleeping the last few nights – not the weird metaphysical stuff of the last year, just ordinary “It’s winter, and you’re still here? What’s wrong with you?” messages from my body.
And I just don’t have a good answer.
So today the work may not feel good. Or inspired. And there may not be a lot of it. But there will be work, product, things you see far in the future at a point where you might not remember this post at all. But I’ll know.
And I’ll look at it, and say (I hope) “Considering how I was feeling, this is pretty good.”