Here it is, another Monday. Another new starting point. That's how I view Monday. It's my excuse for not doing anything creative over the weekend. "I'll start Monday. I'm fresh on Monday."
Oh please! Who am I kidding? I'm as stale as Friday, when my excuse for non-creativity came in the form of a mop and vacuum cleaner.
I'm mad! I can't take it anymore! Last Monday I actually wrote three new pages. And I remember saying to myself, "Self, three pages today; three more tomorrow. Piece of cake."
And one week later I have three pages. No more. No less. Outside my window I hear my mood, dark, drippy and dreary. It's otherwise a perfect day for curling up with a book, which I won't do because it's a cruel reminder of what I'm not doing.
I believe what's worse than not writing is the guilty association. What sort of loser am I? I call myself a writer? Seriously? Why have I lost the mood? Why isn't there a little blue pill for what ails me? The magic came. The magic went. The next time it comes, I'm cutting its wings (my muse is immortal, although a bit dead lately).
Alas. I'll rely on the horoscope de jour's suggestions. Relax. Focus. Meditate. Say a little prayer for me. Tomorrow is another day.
Does your muse have wings?