Turns out the man who came to clean the windows today also loves Doctor Who. Go figure. Synchronicity is a strange and wondrous thing.
I just wish it would work for the novel. Today, because I cannot figure out what happens next in the current novel, I worked on revisions to the previous novel. I still don't feel any good, though, for all that I managed progress. Because it wasn't the right progress, see. So I still feel stuck, stuck, stuck. It's not my favourite feeling. Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal.
Deb Biancotti had a post up recently, about how doing "Nothing. Not a single thing." still counted as writing. Which I loved, but which still doesn't make me feel any better about not having gotten the words I wanted today. That could be because she was talking about filling the creative well, whereas my current problem has more to do with the creative well being buried beneath concrete and me without a jackhammer. One thing I will say, however, is menial jobs or mindless exercise has never worked for me as a way of getting the juice back again. I can stuff envelopes all I want, and sure I won't be concentrating on the envelope-stuffing after a while. What will I be thinking about? Probably the state of my hunger at this precise moment, or the various imperfections in the window nearby, or what kind of child makes a noise just like that. Mind like water, always flowing, never holding on to anything. It's very calming and soothing, yes. But mental productivity? Not so much.