Okay, so the thing about a thirty-day sprint is that keeping up that pace for a full thirty days is, you know, hard. And this week, I just kinda sat down where I was, blinked a few times, and watched the world pass me by.
City of Truth has to wait till Marc gets freed up again, after Sundance and several meetings with production companies; Beaudry is moving slowly because I'm having classic third-act problems (i.e., I don't actually know what on earth happens during the third act); and although I've also been working on my taxes, at the moment I'm stymied because filling out one form requires first filling out another form which requires first filling out yet another form. It means, for mathematically-challenged persons such as myself (or numerically impaired, or just plain 'rithmetic-stupid), that you really need a big block of time with no distractions when you can just get in there and grind it out. This thought is in and of itself deeply depressing.
It got so bad the other night that I looked at the Sunday newspaper, sitting there unread on the floor next to the sofa, and thought that I really ought to just dump the whole thing in the recycling bag and get it off the floor. I leaned down for the paper and then stood again, thinking it was just too damn hard. The paper still sits there, waiting for me to find some giddyup somewhere.
Exercises? No, those fell away for a couple days, though I was able to force myself back on track by Wednesday. Mostly I have sat on the sofa, watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and cackling over "Hillbilly Hare."
And I could write more, but suddenly it all seems so... so very...
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