Recognizing that shoulder muscles turning to rot and flaking off my bones like dandruff is a bad proposition all around, I have decided to back-off of the Six Brothers project for today and take a much needed breather.
Battling the creeping uncertainty of writing a mammoth novel (in a genre I’ve only dabbled in with novellas before, I kindly remind you) has quickly resulted in a Gordian knot of stress taking up residence in my shoulder. Short of taking dear Alexander the Great’s lead of taking up a sword and solving the problem with a well-placed hack, I have no idea how to approach this rather painful dilemma other than to retreat for a bit and let all muscular parties rest.
“Cop out!” some might claim.
“Coward!” a few will even call.
“Survivor!” I retort.
Yeah, I know. A little stress in the shoulders is hardly the big deal I’m making it out to be. But me taking a day off is a HUGE deal with a psyche as screwed up as mine. So blowing the whole shoulder-stress thing out of proportion is my way of justifying my complete and utter failure as a writer today.
Living in my head is really weird sometimes.
Be glad you only visit.