So I've done that thing whereby I've come home intending to go to bed early and fend off anymore illness and promptly fallen asleep without having written anything, only to wake up at 20 to 12 bereft of words, the owner of one considerably befuddled head.
It's now 23:48 and I'm not sure what I can squeeze out of these last 12 minutes that will be in any way worthwhile reading.
I feel this is a recurring theme of this challenge, but I think learning to be unremarkable is just as important-a-step. If I were to only write when consumed by an overly dramatic wash of inspiration, I would be, well, right back where I was before this challenge started: a writer who doesn't write.
We all live our lives with constant expectation of high achievement, whatever that may mean to you, but in reality it's all those mid-points, those not-quites, those near-misses that, statistically speaking inform who we are and what we become.
So, dear reader, this is yet another day of me being unremarkable. I've not failed, but I've not excelled, and by the law of averages, the more days there are like today, the more days there will be of that writerly Nirvana of white-hot inspiration and the right bloody words.
Today is another case of not enough words, in something not even resembling the right order, but there's always tomorrow, and the day after that, and that's fine, because I'm playing the long game.
But first, sleep.