Yesterday, I wrote almost seven hundred words that led me absolutely nowhere. The piece was determined not to serve as a vignette for Sirenia Digest, which means I currently have no use for it. Which means there was not a fifth consecutive productive day. After the writing, things went, as they often do, from bad to worse to worser still. I tried getting away from the iBook and going for a walk, but it didn't help. I tried other things. In the end, I shut myself up inside the bedroom and slept for an hour or so. We didn't get any of Daughter of Hounds read yesterday. It was, in every way, a waste.
I cannot yet say how today will go.
The postman brought me a copy of Sonya Taffe's (sovay) Singing Innconce and Experience, and I read Michael Marshall Smith's story, "Fair Exchange," in Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth, which I liked quite a lot.
Hoping to lift my mood, I watched Terry Gilliam's The Brothers Grimm, which I thought was very good and thoroughly delightful, and Lena Headey's a babe, but I can't say I felt any better afterwards. Same for Project Runway. And a somewhat pointless midnight trek to Kroger that netted me the World's Driest Cinnamon Roll, when I'd only wanted a decent coffee cake. Same for a couple of chapters of Harry Potter.
I suppose I might be grateful that the day was so emotionally consistent, but I'm not. There's too damn much work to be done for these black days. I cannot, in any sense, afford them. And now I'm going to wrap this up. I've realised it's only diminishing my chances that today will be any better than was yesterday.