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every little bit

after a long, draining day that made me question my qualifications as a college teacher, i had nothing at all to show for my writing, so i squeezed in a bare 5 minutes before bed, to minimize the guilt of not doing anything.

as usual, the first couple minutes of blankness were followed by a few scribbled lines of unexpected clarity that got me over a plot hump in HHNF that’s been hindering me.

even 5 minutes.

in my journal afterwards, i complained:

why can’t the story ideas come fully formed?

followed a moment later by:

where would the satisfaction be in that?

seriously, i can’t even cut myself a little slack. it’s that pseudo-puritanical work ethic:

success requires suffering; otherwise, what’s the point?

in all honesty, i would never trade this lifestyle as it helps me produce the best material i can, but there are certainly moments of weakness…

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