It’s Monday. That means an entire weekend passed me by and I don’t really have anything to show for it. I cleaned my house a little, which usually is neglected due to all this writing business. But it’s Monday. Did I spend my weekend writing? No. Did I spend my weekend reading? No. Did I spend my weekend furthering my plans for world domination? No.

Honestly, other than going to a fabulous dinner last night at a friend’s house, I have nothing to show for myself. I understand that writing can be a slow process, maybe a page per day is a typical rate for some, but not for this one. It took me 11 days to write 10 pages in my new manuscript. That makes me feel awful. Nauseous, even. I even tried drunk writing, which I think amounted to 2 (yes, two) paragraphs, which were actually pretty good. I’m running in circles, I have no idea where I’m going. I thought the funk was over, but I was SO WRONG.

When I don’t write on a regular basis, I go a little crazy. Writing is my one escape from, well, everything. When I’m not doing it, the real world creeps in, rolls around in my well-organized chaos, slashing and slicing with its barbs and knives, leaving ribbons behind. The real world sucks. That’s why I write. So when I’m not…

It’s hell.

Yes. I’m being dramatic. Deal.

Plus I’m waiting, waiting, waiting, for news on another front. With no writing to distract me, the waiting becomes bigger and bigger just like the blob. I can’t escape the waiting.

This time it’s bad.

Writing doesn’t hold my attention, neither does reading. I don’t watch much television, but it’s about the only mindless thing I can stomach right now. Unfortunately, my son claims the television most days so I’m stuck watching Calliou and Sesame Street. Even music isn’t doing it for me. And then I wonder…is it my lack of winterguard that’s gotten me so low? I’m not doing a single creative thing right now. My life is BLAH. I’m BLAH. Everything is BLAH.

If I’m not moving forward, what the hell am I doing?

I should probably just send this entry to the abyss, the giant TRASH BIN, but I won’t. At least it shows that I made an effort somewhere, that I wrote something, even if it was worthless.