Today was a weird day. Woke up tired after sleeping too little and too unwell. I turned off a bunch of heaters because it’s spring… and then it dropped to like 15 Farenheit last night (I know, I’m from Canada, but the outdoor thermometer we have is in Farenheit). Cold. So I didn’t sleep well.

Trudged through the day, getting a little editing done. A little writing. By the time I had to stop for the day to deal with family stuff, I’d written maybe a thousand words. Too distracted, too tired, too blah. Got a bunch of minor things done, but nothing special.

By the time I had time to myself again in the evening, it was getting late. I started reading, catching up on the Wandering Inn and some other stuff. Chatting with friends.

In between, I listened to music and pecked at the keyboard, distracted but intent on hitting the 2k goal of the day. A scene, meant more to punctuate a trip, meant as the equivalent of random encounter and meant to be finished in a paragraph morphed.


And somewhere along the way, inspiration struck and I started writing. Focused.

Words flowed, and a single paragraph encounter went longer. To nearly a thousand words. It became not a punctuation, but a world-building scene, a character scene. It became, better.

Writing is a weird, solo, sometimes thankless, exercise. You have word counts and plot points that need hitting. A structured ‘beat’ to fulfill, word choice to consider. Research on the most random of topics.

Some days words don’t come. Other days they flow without stop. And then you delete most of them the next day and try again.

But occasionally, occasionally, you craft something that you love. You know it has warts still, things that need fixing. But the heart, the soul? It’s there.

And that makes a good day.