Today was one of those days where I wasn’t feeling inspired, championing the merits of literature, nor was feeling particularly disgruntled with the process, trying to push a boulder up a hill. Like any work day, this Friday has been just another day. Nothing profound to note. No exceptional observations. Simply moving along with the rhythm of the week. And that’s fine. I’m making progress, logging my time, and marching forward.

From the reader’s perspective, today’s production won’t be earmarked as “author did not feel particularly up to it but got it done anyways.” Amazing how we feel the need to have these feelings of grandeur as we create as some kind of justification or fulfill some sense of purpose. When we see writers represented in film during their writing periods, they are suddenly stricken with the lightning bolt of a muse, producing the most eloquent prose without interruption. It’s disingenuous. Toiling away has no soundtrack, nor any euphoria of creation. It’s a quiet, lonely marathon that seems like it might never end. The finish line is self-defined, ending the race only when you say so. Being told to stop is much easier than telling yourself to stop.

To be honest, I’m writing this because I really don’t want to work on the book. It’s Friday. I want to bum around, throw on the PlayStation, and indulge in distraction. I made a promise to myself not to engage. And I’m just tired of breaking those promises I make to myself. “I won’t play video games.” Five minutes later.. Plays video games. No, not this time.

Anyhow.