So this morning I’m angry about time. I couldn’t help yesterday’s wasted day, but I started to think about what I had lost. And I will never know what that is. The creative process is 90% hard work and 10% mystery. Why does an artistic sequence of words flow onto the page as easily as breath one day, and turn into a punishment the next? I have a chapter to write that will close the first half of my novel, but I’ve been avoiding it. Suppose fate had decided that yesterday I would have received one of those rare gifts from the gods, a seamless first draft, but instead of sitting at my computer with every pore open ready to receive the inspiration, it rained down on an empty chair while I was sleeping through a Netflix in the next room. John Lennon said the creative process required that we just show up. That is what developing a consistent writing practice is all about. Being there to coax loose those words and ideas teasing us just below the surface. So I’m frustrated with the Valium for not getting any writing done during yesterday’s fog of a day. But what about all the days I forgot to write, or decided I would sleep in and missed a session before a day full of appointments, or just put it off because there is always tomorrow and the half finished story or novel isn’t going anywhere. My days are numbered, as are yours. And I don’t know what that number is. Suppose it comes calling before I’ve finished my novel. Who will I blame then?