Yesterday I wrote and wrote, and what I wrote was pretty awful, but at least it's been ejected into some version of actuality. I am definitely not in the zone: every word feels like a jackhammer to my skull. Still, I did manage to blurt out four pages of dense undigested garble, so I've got material to revise.
Like a coward, I'm yearning for distraction. Surely someone will need me to do something! Please! . . . but no: I've got another whole day to myself, and I'd better make use of it. Ugh. Writing is so awful. Why do people do it?
A few days ago, a poet-acquaintance commented on Facebook that her local coffee shop was offering free coffee to anyone who wrote a poem. "How is that a bargain?" she asked plaintively. "It's a million times easier just to pay for coffee."
Anyway, off I trudge to the mines. Let's hope the methane levels stay under control and the supports don't start crumbling.