After a day of robust writing on Thursday, I floundered on Friday.
I could blame many things for this flopping, including but not limited to:
a.) The smoking of my sewers… Yes, the city actually does that and did that here Friday. While I appreciate their efforts at potential leak management, panic-ridden smut writers just really can’t “get it on” during sewer games.
b.) A travel day lurking ahead… Sunday will once again find me “hop, skip and jump”ing across the region. Being a nervous little twit, anything “upcoming” upsets the psyche. Don’t ask. I have no idea.
c.) Thanksgiving looms… Any holiday revolving solely around eating and socializing is bad news, ok?
Yep, I could drag out any of those reasons and plop them ceremoniously on the altar of good excuses, but I won’t. I fear the truth is something much more embarrassing….
I am out of practice. Fiction-writing has been put on the backburner so many times these last three months, I’ve simply forgotten how to do it regularly.
This is bad.
Fixable, but very, very bad.
I don’t like being rusty. I don’t like it at all.