Last week sucked. I mean, not in any major kind of way, but in that petty, niggling, soul-crushing way that just makes you want to stay in bed and pull the covers up over your head. Mostly, it was bullshit work stuff (sometimes, the Gods of Science just plain frown upon you, no matter how hard you try to appease them), and usually, when it's work that's got me down, I try to throw myself into my writing, figuring it'll be just the boon I need to drag me back to Happy-Land.
The problem is, it never works.
See, I think one of the tricks to writing well (for me, at least) is to separate the desire to write from the desire to have written. Fame, financial stability, critical acclaim, the respect of your peers - all those goals are well and good, but they're all about having written. You focus on those when you sit down at the keyboard, and what you get is crap. To get anything worthwhile on the page, you've got to be invested in the story, the characters, the moment - that's where writing comes from. The problem is, when you're counting on writing to solve your problems or improve your mood (you meaning me, of course; why do I keep writing it that way?), you're sort of shifting the focus to all that having written stuff. At least, that's how it was for me, this weekend: a whole lot of staring at a blank page, and a whole lot of crappy sentences, agonized over, only to be quickly deleted.
Lucky for me, the tide eventually turned, and my ennui lifted. I went from no new pages to seven new pages in a few hours flat. The trick? I gave up. I figured it just wasn't gonna happen this weekend, so I shut down the computer, and that was that. Except, of course, it wasn't. It's like I gave my mind permission to wander, and really, that's all I ever needed.
So yeah. DH is up over 200, which means life is good - that other crap be damned.