I did not love the words I put on the page the last time I sat down to write.
I’m trying to process this feeling and I think that appropriately I’ll do so through writing even more. Maybe I’ll love these words, or maybe they’ll hurt like a toe stubbed on the sofa. Is this really coming out of my head? I can spend days or weeks “meaning to write” but never finding the time (what a lie) and when I finally sit down and get a measly few hundred words down, this is what I get? It doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem right that anything so useless would be all my reward for getting my shit together and spending a whole half an hour in front of the keyboard.
Obviously, I need a reality check.
There are going to be so many more bad writing sessions. I’m going to write so many crappy paragraphs, useless pages, and awful chapters that just have to be thrown away. I’m going to have to, if I want to get to the good ones. I’m going to pull a desert out from my finger tips and hope with every tug an oasis is found. I’ll drink the little haven dry immediately, and I’ll be surrounded by gritty unpleasant sand again to trudge through. I’ll be diligent. I’ll march on. I’ll find the next oasis.
I’ll never know when it will come.