Today I am... stuck.

Have you ever felt inexplicably stuck? 

This is a different stickiness than that which prevents creativity. It's more like a weight or a golf handicap. Which do you find most annoying? A complete lack of ideas or a sudden lack of dexterity to carry out a flood of ideas?

I'm not sure at the moment.

I'd planned a mini writing marathon to run from Friday through Tuesday. It's Monday night and I have little to show for it. Where my last marathon was a great success, this week's has been a big ol' dud. It's not even writer's block. I know what I have to say. I know how to go get it and put it on the page. It's just that this little thing called life is tripping me up right now.

How do you tell such an intangible thing to shut up and leave you alone because you have work to do? Work with intangible goals and outcomes until someone other than myself sees printed words on paper or a screen? 

There's no need to sit here and whine about my broken washing machine and the repair people who don't seem to comprehend the urgency of that situation for a household that contains children. Or that my chronic insomnia has done an inconvenient flip on me, resulting in nine hours of sleep a night at the most inconvenient time, when the kids are silent and there's a fire in the hearth.  These are my versions of inconveniences that everyone has. It's frustrating, but those are the daily puzzles we have to figure out in order to get to and maintain our Daily Joy. 

What frustrates me is my sudden lack of speed. Today, out at Wavering Place, where I get to have a little respite from the joy and drudgery of daily maintenance as the property's writer-in-residence, I hammered out a whopping 342 words during a period of time when I could normally knock out 2,000. I didn't check email. I took a single 10-minute social media break. Nothing distracted me. It simply took 3.5 hours (after removing the 20-minute walk and 25 minutes spent reading) to write what equates to a single page in a book. I'm writing through pluff mud, and I don't know if it's in my brain or encasing my fingers.

Tomorrow.

Some blame 'tomorrows' for procrastination. Right now I find it to be my most important word. 

Tonight I'm tired. When I finish this I'll read myself to sleep and wake in the morning with more strength to fight my way out of the sticky pluff that's slowing me down, but may be making me stronger. I've come to believe that the waves of frustrations that ebb and swell throughout the week or month are our training ground for when shit really hits the fan. Otherwise we'll collapse every time we face something slightly harder than usual. So tomorrow, I'm going to power through... and also pray that someone will fix my washing machine.

Train on, folks.