Blah. Woke up this morning expecting some email from various people about various things – and there is nothing. Writing books seems to involve ridiculous amounts of waiting. Then it’s hurry up/why isn’t this done, followed by panic and rushing, and then…. more inexplicable waiting. That’s what book making seems to be – a long series of syncopated workings, panics, and waitings.

It’s one of those “gee, it’s lonely being solo” kinds of moments. I’ve been moping around for 10 minutes or so, but now I’m thinking that my success is probably dependent on how I handle these mope-worthy, pity-party moments when it seems like I don’t really exist outside of this room.

If I find my own energy and convert the mopeness into so vague kind of motivation, and work on things, I’ll feel better, will make progress, and will reduce the odds I’ll feel this way again tomorrow. So it’s a choice: indulge the pity, or convert it into some kind of useful action.