The Light Under The Door
I began work this morning on what, I guess, we’ll just affectionately refer to as “The Novel” for the time being. I didn't get very far—three pages at the most—but it was some of the most fulfilling writing I’ve done. I really felt as though this was it. This was the thing I was meant to write. The scene was powerful, the descriptions not-too-bad, the characters wonderful and as memorable to me as ever. It was a good time.
This was followed by a day at work, during which I was unable to close out even one single project. My boss is big on deliverables and at the end of the day I had nothing. I had a whole bunch of things in progress, but in his eyes progress doesn’t matter for beans. It’s end-results that make a difference.
I had a headache by 1:30 and I was falling asleep in my car trying to get through the opening pages of Notes from the Underground. It was not pleasant.
At the gym, I did my thing and read some more and then I came home. Stef called on her cellphone on the way home and said she was stressed and wanted to cheat on dinner. I ordered a pizza and she picked it up on the way home and we sat and watched Friends and a bit of the Celtics game before hitting the books again.
Now it’s time for bed.