This is one of those days I have to force myself to write.
It's Friday, I don't have anything I have to leave the house for today, it's going to be 94 degrees (F; 34.5 degrees C) out, I'm wrestling with Gaia's Hands, have no ideas for a new short story ...
And I'm feeling a little down. I'm wondering if there's such a thing as micromood swings, or if it's just the heat getting to me. I'm not depressed or anything; just not feeling like I'm on the verge of something wonderful happening.
But still I write. And that's the important thing, to write even when it feels like the last thing I want to do. Just a small amount will do -- just a blog post, just an hour. Just a submission. Just a moment of creation.
Neither my feelings of defeat nor my feelings of impending success actually presage the future; they are simply extrapolations of feelings that may be influenced by my strange chemistry. My actions, however, are what's important. Without stepping forward, I have no chance of success.
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