I had one of those weeks where nothing exterior can quite justify the lousy feeling experienced on the interior.
Things have not been congealing on the page in any satisfactory way. A month of work painstakingly describing a time and place that no longer exists, trying to be historically accurate ended up looking like I was plagiarizing effing wikipedia!
My moods do ride the roller coaster of my work. Unless it’s the other way around? But that’s not all: One kid no longer needing me enough. The other one needing me too much. Being called critical (I know you are but what am I?) It all tipped the balance and suddenly I was not only flunking writing, I was also flunking the important relationships in my life, and life itself.
Invariably, I retreated into my little world only to pass the solitude threshold and start to feel really, really bad. Don’t give me enough space and I’m like a beast in a cage. Give me too much and I feel there is no purpose to my life. Balance, it’s all about balance. And right now I ain't got none.
Today I felt better, at least in terms of writing, as my character started to emerge out of that wikipedia rubble. Now all I need to work on in my own character :-)
(The pictures are by photographer Paul Barbera: two interpretations of the same mantel, to illustrate that there can be more than one way to spin things. And below a bathroom i like.)