My brain today is a vast, vague void, which, when you think about it, is kind of appropriate for V. Perhaps it’s a little bit of the weather, because it is gray and somewhat flat; perhaps it is the incessant sound of drilling into concrete, because they are working on the facade of my building.
Either way, it feels as though my mind has undertaken a voyage without me. I hope it’s somewhere nice. Colorful, maybe.
So I’m left to fend for myself, here on my own. But that’s what it’s like, sometimes, being a writer, isn’t it? It’s not the times when the work flows forward, springing from flying fingers as though written by someone else, it’s the times that you sit down and face the cursor because it’s time to do so. Now and again, you find your brain returns. Once in a while, it even brings souvenirs back from wherever it’s been, ones that can veer your work in an entirely new direction.
Creative work isn’t always about the creativity. Sometimes it’s about the work.
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