I moved furniture & computer so that I can write in the living room. My intention is that, if I cannot get enough (by whatever undefined measurement I am using) done on my book each morning, I can write in the evenings without going into solitary confinement. The computer desk is facing away from the room, out over the garden. It’s a nice thing to see in the morning.
To further prepare myself for starting this morning, I formatted a word document, tucked a shortcut to it on the desktop, provided myself with a stack of post-its, and gave myself insomnia. I eventually dreamt of starting fights with loved ones without reason, intentionally. I am certain that I insomned sub-intentionally; this morning’s work has too much weight to it. Somewhere in my head I am saying, “if I don’t write well and muchly this morning, the world will end and I will be an utter failure.”
I will write poorly and scant, and there will be words on paper, and tomorrow I will be adding to them, and the next day to more, and the quality will improve and my character will find better voice and all will be well and things will be wonderful.
I will explain all about this weekend, and why I am up early, later today. I have to go write.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry