Writing is a strange thing. It's drudge and depression. It's glee and exhilaration. It's doldrums and waiting and excruciating boredom. It's not a profession I would encourage anyone to take up and it's one I would encourage everyone who has a story in their head to at least attempt.
It's weeks on end of staring at the same words over and over, moving them here and there, deleting them in one draft only to replace them in another. Or it's staring at a blank page until the white imprints on your eyes and makes you snowblind. Or it's hours slumped over the keyboard typing until your hands ache because the story is putting pressure on your brain and you have to get it out before permanent damage occurs.
It's weeping because you haven't seen a sale in days and then giggling because someone you never met said something kind about your work.
It's bipolar disorder and ADHD, phobia and neuroses whipped into a fine meringue.
Some days I want to chuck it all into the circular file and run screaming through the woods, frightening the deer and the neighbors. Some days I can't imagine ever stopping.
Not quite sure which day today is.