La la la, no ineffable artistic souls here.

I don't know whether writing is more of a pain in the butt when it's like everything else or when it isn't.

If you know the kitchen needs cleaning, for the most part it doesn't get easier if you put it off. Sure, if you're exhausted to the point of tears, or sick, or something like that, waiting until you're not any of those things to clean the kitchen is a good idea. But one healthy afternoon is much like another, when it comes to kitchen cleaning, and the sooner you get the tomato sauce wiped off the counter, the better.

Writing? No. For more months than I feel willing to admit, I've had a short story thing to do that's been well below kitchen-cleaning on the list of things I'd like to do. Somewhat less fun than scrubbing the toilet. Less interesting than cleaning my toenails. I have sat down with this particular task on at least a half-dozen occasions, probably more, and found nothing but idiocy available.

Today? I am two for two on the sections of this project I've attempted, and with no particular strain on my part.

Yarrrrrg.

People, I do not believe in inspiration. I do not believe in the muse. I do not believe in my ineffable artistic soul. I believe in sitting my butt down and doing it. I would like to believe that I've become smarter and more patient and a better writer in the months I've been not-doing this particular thing, but that may well be wishful thinking, and anyway it just doesn't look that hard at the moment. It doesn't look like something I couldn't have done. The only way I can tell that I couldn't do it before is because I was here, and I watched.

Still, here we are: a significant differential in how easy, how possible, sitting my butt down and doing this is.

Weird.

Well, back to it.