Mondays, a day for cursing and gnashing of teeth. Ah, how we hate thee! To have to roll out of bed, blinking at the miserable condition of having to go to work.

Ok, so I might be exaggerating a bit. Or a lot, it really wasn't that bad, just long. 'twas always thus.

I did get writing done, Peace Offering is up to about 1700 words, so a good start for me so far. One of the things that made today longer was that I had a crisis of faith, as it were, this morning about the writing. I felt lower than a dog, what on earth am I doing this for, dragging myself through this I'm crap at writing why torture myself.

It passed. They're always short term thoughts. That doesn't mean I don't feel them, but they're predictable, too. It's that voice in my head that doesn't want to succeed, or rather, would rather fail by not trying than finish and face rejection.

And one thing I'm discovering is that there's a rhythm to it. Every story, certainly every longer work, I have my tests to pass. With the story, the "hey where is this going" moments. And with myself, the "hey are you sure you want to do this?" moments. From what I can tell, these thoughts are a pretty regular part of the process for a lot of artists and writers.

Maybe we have to slay our demons every time?

So be it. The armor's a little rusty, and there are many times I'm afraid the sword's a pasta noodle, but screw it. Let's buckle up, ride out, and clash at arms again...