The past few days family has been home during my writing time so there is no peace, no quiet for the needed concentration. I am left with creating in my mind for later composition which is a no no.
I'm closer than ever to being organized these days. I have my writing routine and an exercise program and feel good about myself. Still the darkness and doubt crawl the fringes, looking for a crack, an in to make you question it all. Why? What's the use? The usual.
I stride ever forward.
Hang is creeping along at fifty pages and I have an idea for my African warrior out of time. Still chip at the random acts short story too.
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