I was all distracted and, hello, irritated yesterday, without anything to work on. I started to wonder if maybe that was the best I could do, maybe I didn't have anything more in me to write out and I've just been a fool about the whole thing, going on and on about my writing and all it's all childish crap anyway and no good.
And I thought ha! Serves you right, bragging on about your writing, of course it's no good. It's terrible. It'll never go anywhere, it'll just peter out.
It just felt so weird not having anything to work on, no goal, no bright vision pulling me forward.
As an aside, I just have to say that coming in from jogging, hitting that last, long stretch with rubbery legs and warm, liquid lungs and thinking I can't do it, and then hearing Daft Punk's "One More Time" kick in all though my head was one of the most pleasurable moments of my life.
I felt like Rocky Balboa. I was drunk on endorphins and ran right down the middle of the road and almost got run over by what was undoubtedly a very irritated neighbor. Must remember to stay on the side of the road.
I scrapped the idea of expanding the old story and started in on the new and as soon as I did, everything clicked into place. The story shimmers with life. I more than doubled it last night, and now all is well. I am a writer after all.