So I've just got in from coming inexplicably and hilariously 4th in a St Patrick's Day-themed pub quiz, in honour of my housemate's birthday.
(The quiz was St Patrick's Day themed in honour of St Patrick and his day though, just to be clear)
This is a really bad habit that I've gotten myself in to, finding myself at the last half hour of every day scrabbling around for words and trying to extract some kind of profundity from them.
As much as I can keep telling myself I'm writing, and achieving, and fulfilling my obligation to myself, and that that's ok, at some point soon I won't, and I feel like I'm testing myself to my very limits of what's possible within the specifications of this challenge, with no real or clear indication as to why, or what it is I'm learning from it.
I'm getting really good at cobbling together half-formed, not-fully-executed pieces that serve a fraction of the purpose for which I set myself this challenge, but outside that?
I'll tell myself I'm too busy, but in reality, I'm too something else. What exactly, I'm not sure, but I feel like I'm acting out against myself in some sort of strange internal power play. I mean, I'm writing, but not to any kind of standard, really, because I don't really appear to be letting myself.
So that's me, again.
Teenagers are supposed to go through phases like this, but at 28 days surely my writing should be better: I should know better?
Apparently not, but still, I will keep writing, keep enforcing to myself the fact that it's not simply a case of driving myself to the edge and giving up, but of edging my way back and allowing myself to create and achieve what it was I started out to do: write for 40 days straight.
28 and counting.