For the first time in a long time, I couldn’t finish a run today. Nauseated, saddened, and cramping, I was forced to a halt. It happens. Now I’m riding a merry-go-round of bad feeling about it. Even though I know it’s perfectly normal, some days it just doesn’t happen. Your body or your spirit decides no thanks, let’s go home and make cookies instead, huh? Except I’m sitting here staring at a blank screen and the characters are mute. They won’t come out to play until they’re ready.
Staying off the escalator of self-loathing is difficult. Some days the writing doesn’t work. Sometimes the run goes badly. Sometimes the whole damn world is a piece of grit working under your shell, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to make it a pearl because god damn it, why can’t anything ever be easy? Switching to a different story only makes the burn worse. Prowling the house and touching the books helps, but only for a little while.
So today is a day of exposed nerves sparking and cravings for chocolate-chip cookie dough mounting. Sooner or later I’ll get to go to bed. Then tomorrow will come, and I’ll get up and go out for a run again. Sooner or later the characters will have to talk.
Irritation passes. Stubbornness lasts forever. Or at least, stubbornness can outlast even the Muse. All I need to do is hold on a little longer than she does.