I am inching forward by 500-word increments.

It could be worse, I know this. And sometimes I get 2K in before the day ends, and those days I feel pretty good about myself. Some days I get almost 500 words in, and then I am a lazy slob barely worth the price of her her on-sale Dell laptop.

I am a human yo-yo. Not the awesome cello-playing kind, either.

I’ve been in theater productions, worked in a refugee camp where I didn’t speak the language, planned my own wedding (if you’ve done it, you know it belongs in any list of high-stress experiences), walked into countless new offices at the start ofΒ  new jobs, taught myself any number of new programs, new procedures, new whatever, blah-blah-blah: my point is, I’m fairly familiar with being out of my element. But there’s nothing else in the world that makes me as completely and utterly schitzo as writing a novel.

I finish a scene: I am a goddess of the well-turned phrase, and I plot as no-one has ever plotted before.

I re-read the very same scene the very next day: I am utter shite, and who am I kidding? Time to take up stamp collecting, or something else I can pretend to be good at.

See? Yo-yo.

yo yo

(yes, I picked a yo yo with “Wildcat” on it on purpose. How many people take yo-yoing seriously enough that they don’t completely crack up when trying to use a yo yo with THAT written on the side? “Rowr! Wildcat! I walk the dog FIERCELY!”)

I swear, I’m more stable than this. Really. Just not when I’m writing.


I hate the middle. *kicks dirt*