The requirement: up early and draft the words. That’s what I call steady and that’s what my Writing Big Year, 2017’s main effort, entails. But on this gray Monday, with exactly twelve weeks remaining, a soft despair grips me.
So many symptoms abound, the clearest being sleep-ins, but I’ve been through this before and the true underlying reason is simple. I’m afraid. The words I’ve drafted are gauche and this next section doesn’t admit an easy opening para.
I now seek two ways forward. One is the equivalent of open-heart surgery, a jolt to how I do things. The other is quiet, selfish immersion, the mind churning options. Neither is easy to do when in the thrall of despair.