This is day four of sticking with my new routine.

I had hoped that the momentum of my newfound writing routine would carry forward. And it did.

Sort of.

Yesterday was a glorious day of writing. I was invincible. The clicking of the keyboard was a thing to behold. Sentences begat paragraphs, which begat pages, which begat more pages of glorious and inspired writing.

Oh, behold the prodigous output! The angels were dancing on the heads of pins, the muses were lined up in choral magnificence, the angels flapped their wings in wonder at my prolific outpouring of inspired script, in short…I was amazing!

How’s that cliche go? Into every life, some rain must fall?

If yesterday could be described as Words on Wings (I was as free as the Stay-Freed and Very-Winged Cathy Rigby dressed in white & flipping through the air in gymnastic ecstacy, all while not worrying about her period!).

Than today was Words on Warthogs: words being dragged backwards on the back of feral hairy beasts while slogging with boot-sucking drag through boggy mire and gobs of shite in a forest of fog-shrouded-gloom and dark.

Did I mention that today was hard? Just damned hard.

And here’s the real reason Lot’s wife turned to salt…because you should never ever look back! But I ignored that story and looked back at what I wrote yesterday which reminded me of my never-ending delusions because clearly everything I’d written yesterday had been fluff.

And yet, I feel something akin to the teeniest bit of satsifaction. 

Yes, be it resolved that even though I don’t actually like what I’ve done that much, I am proud that I did what I said I was going to do. I beat back my resistance, killed that naysaying critic that lives on my shoulder and showed up on the page, bleeding out word by scratchy word. Cathy Rigby’s got nothing on me.

I put my time in, worked hard and did my best.

I wrote in spite of myself.