Disappointed by the endings of DEER EDITOR and OUR BONES DUST: both series were too good to come to an end so abruptly (three issues and four, respectively). Hopeful that an eventual re-read of both will change my mind.
Slowly, slowly returning to the mindset that this writing thing is less a cosmic joke that I've borne the brunt of for the last 20+ years and more an essential part of who I am, for better or for worse: part of the frustration – and this need (rational – though perhaps too rational) for some nebulous "else" – is that I get up so early (which I prefer) that I'm mentally tapped out (read: old and tired) by lunch if not by the end of the morning run and that I'm incapable of mustering the requisite focus and/or willpower to push ahead creatively through the remaining 10-13 hours of of my waking day which – while the smart thing to do would be to view those 10-13 as a time for replenishing and restocking my creative well – nonetheless feel more like a further drain on my limited-to-begin-with mental and creative acuity but hey, at least I'm not using this space to bitch about how busy I am (which I'm not which might be part of the problem though I'd never bitch about it because that's just fucking lame): no, I get to bitch about other things (like how T1D is nothing if not a disease of damned if you do, damned if you don't) so IDK pfffbt, fuck it, the day awaits.
unicorn
Being to find a rhythm to the day makes my creative work not my secret identity between bouts of househusbandry and life in general but my default, a less-segmented / compartmentalized way of getting through the day.
Current thinking is that a solution lies somewhere at the intersection of smart bulbs turning off in The Paintshop at certain times (EAT NOW), a defined endtime to the workday, and an increased effort at a.) letting go of my need for repeatability; b.) 🖕ing to guilt over doing what I want to do with my fucking time; and, c.) not getting bent out of shape over life breaking through the walls, those last remnants of a quarter-century past conservatory practice room guilt. Or, you know, me just eating when I'm hungry and doing what I need to do when I need to do it and coming back here to seek refuge in this temple to our lady of thankless calling. Saying fuck it, basically, and trusting myself that my natural rhythm will get shit done.
Have no walls – save for the essentials that keep the structure sound, perhaps? Less a fortress and more an open-air plan?
