Usually I write from 11:30 to 2:00 pm. or thereabouts, when my toddler is napping. Today, however, said toddler refused to nap, nohow, contrariwise. I was having trouble getting my head together anyway, thanks to it being a certain time of the month* but that really put gum in my mental works. Now I have to write at least 1,400 words tonight to make quota, but even with my detailed outline I seem to have lost my grasp on the book and no longer know what I am doing or why.
-- *No, not that one, the OTHER one -- my brain goes on the fritz every two weeks these days. Feh.
I did manage to write 2000 words, after all. I still feel like the whole book so far is made up of random jigsaw pieces, and every scene will need a great deal of revision, but at least I am still moving forward, albeit in a shuffling Igor-like fashion (neeeeeed braaaaaaaains).
I wish I felt happier about the whole thing, though. I think it's a potentially good story plot-wise, and I like the characters and feel that they are solid enough to carry the book. But I don't love what I'm writing. I don't get caught up in the mood and the atmosphere and write in a half-daze, the way I did when I was a teenager or in my early twenties. These days I feel that instead of soaring on the wings of a diaphanous muse, I am digging out every word with a shovel. It is not, as such, particularly Fun.
And yet I don't feel any happier about not writing, so onward I slog, and hope that somewhere along the way I will rediscover some pleasure in my own craft again.