Writing takes it out of you.
I sit here this evening, waiting on supper to cook, my head throbbing, my eyes aching, but with a feeling of great accomplishment. No, I didn’t move mountains today. I didn’t dig any ditches, or balance any books. I didn’t have an over-bearing boss screaming in my ear. I didn’t stand at a cash register or chase down any bad guys…
I wrote hard.
I wrote about things that I feel, have felt, or will feel, and I lived them in the skin of a character being born out of my mind. That’s what we do. That’s what Hemingway meant when he talked about sitting in front of a typewriter and bleeding. That’s what Nin meant when she talked about saying what others can’t.
So what did I do today? I wrote. How about you?