It’s not like I don’t tell myself every week that this week is going to be a high-volume writing week.
And it’s not like this week didn’t have some justifiably huge, complicated necessities on the to-do list, of which I can divulge more later.
And it’s not like only sitting down to finally fucking write on Thursday of said week is really championing my own brilliance.
But in the interest of self-esteem, and preservation of this fragile hold I have on my own goals, I did write this morning. For two hours. Without too much distraction and sticking marginally to the plot and characters that have been languishing desperate for attention in my documents folder for months now.
I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to do this, but it is, and conquering the hard and the fear and the angst is the only way to shut up the demons of self-loathing and doubt that plague my creative mind. At least, for today, I shut them up good and proper. And that deserves at least a bounce in my step.

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