I'm supposed to be editing; I've still got about 390 pages to go (b/c I started over from page one the other day) but this has been one of those days that has fought me tooth and nail since before I even got out of bed this morning.

I am one of those writer-types who battles depression & anxiety at every turn and who often feels overwhelmed by the breadth and scope of the many projects I choose to undertake (there are a whole ton of us out here, folks; what is it about writers anyway?). And it got to the point where my brain turned around and looked at me in the middle of the night last night and said, "What the hell is going on here? I'm really, really, really tired of all this. When are you just going to be normal?"

I tried to ignore it and I replied, "What's 'normal' though? Who really knows how to define that?"

And my brain replied, "People who don't try to write for a living, is one example that springs to mind."

From then on it was me trying to focus on the many little things that make me happy so that I could ignore that little voice but that kind of battle sure does get in the way of trying to do any kind of meaningful editing. I did do some baking, however, and I did an agni meditation for half an hour, which managed to bring my underlying issues raging to the fore and it was certainly unsettling while it lasted (which I guess is the point) but then it all passed through and subsided. So, onward, as usual, I guess.

Well, off to the library now to return Boondock Saints. I tried to watch it, folks;  to be open-minded about it since everyone I know under the age of 35 raves about that movie, but it just wasn't my cup of tea. Too many raging stereotypes, to put it mildly.