It's one of those days. It's raining. It's grey. The laundry hasn't disappeared and the dishes haven't put themselves away. My two cats are sleeping in the dining room and each of them open an eye to give me a withering stare if I dare to walk past. I know I should shake off this mood and dig back into my manuscript, but on days like today it's hard. Really hard.
There is no deadline hanging over me like a scythe. No ominous footsteps can be heard approaching. It's just me and my writing and my brain saying "Frankly, my dear...". A better soul would have been able to motivate themselves and would, by now, be typing furiously away; the staccato of the keyboard lending a rhythm to the bright and cheery humming leaking from their lips. I feel sure small chubby bluebirds would be circling around the yard as evidence of the magic happening within the house.
Not here. Here, it's raining. Here, it's grey.
These are the days when all of those thoughts come slithering back into my brain. Those thoughts. We all have them from time to time and I have learned to shut them out but at the moment they are so numerous that they're leaking out my ears.
Writing can be glorious. Writing lets you explore new lands and create new characters and experience adventures through their eyes. It can teach you things about other people and certainly about yourself. I enjoy being a writer...most days. But today?
Today, it's raining. Today, it's grey. And the cats continue to glare.