Most days, my writing can be summed up in two letters, one of which is “U.”
Often the other letter is “P,” but occasionally “F” creeps up to the top spot.

I’m halfway there and I feel this has been half-hearted at best…mostly due to timing. Summer. Kids. My usual rants about lack of chunks of time to scour my brain, to dip my toes into new and wonderful things, to write and delete and chew on my pencil.  All the rueful wonderful elements of inspiration.

I have already resolved to do 100 Days of Writing 2.0 once the kids are back in school (although the baby will only be in preschool 2 days x 2 hours).

It’s been an exercise in trying to squash the voice telling me that I have no story to tell, trying to nuzzle a story forth, and often feeling bereft of not only Story but also Voice.  I think once that little monster is conquered, there will be more things to say, as there once were.

I spend a lot of time thinking about my demons, it seems. I’m tired of thinking about them.  Good sign.

The daily habit is set. I like it. I feel that wonderful discomfort if I haven’t started writing by early evening. And then I write.

I’ve been working on continuing my Aspen tales, trying very hard to not my Johnny Iuzzini crush dribble out all over the page. In between, I cranked this silliness out.  I catch myself having glimpses of show ideas, short story ideas, perhaps even a novel.

It’s good. WooHoo U.