My life has run away with me.
I get up, feed kids, get them dressed, get the big one to the bus. I wash my hair, go to work, get home at 6:30. Eat a hot meal lovingly prepared by my wonderful husband. Play with kids, take a shower, preside over baths, teeth-brushing, stories, get Big One in bed. Get Little One in bed. Sit on the couch, in the general vicinity of my husband, staring at the TV screen for half an hour, go settle Little One in bed again. Brush my teeth. Kiss my husband. Go to bed, read for twenty minutes. Pass out. Wake five or six times in the night with Little One, who is teething and might have a bladder infection. Get up. Start over.
This is dreary, I know, I'm sorry. Today I'm tired, I'm drained. I miss my writing, and having contact with my writer friends. I need some exercise. I need. Some time. To write.
I've been out of touch with my WIPS for a few months now. I'm out of touch with me. I'm doing what I have to do, I don't feel like a failure this time. But geez.
Today, anything that isn't an emergency is going to wait. Anyone I don't have to talk to, I won't. I'm going to write.
I don't have any idea *what*, but I'm going to brainstorm some ideas, and see if I can't shake these blues.