Last night was . . . well, it was different. It suppose “different” is one way of putting how I was feeling about eleven PM when I was in the middle of a crying jag and I pretty much wandered about the apartment wondering what everything just wasn’t right.
No, not good at all.
I hit a realization yesterday, one that I think everyone who writes hits: I’m not always writing when I’m at my best, and it has hurt my work. And . . . Continue reading