I've always wondered about writers who drank or did drugs as aids to their writing. Dylan Thomas and Hunter S. Thompson come to mind as two examples. If I had the slightest buzz from anything, I wouldn't be able to write at all.
But that's not to say I don't have my weaknesses, my moments of misjudgment. This week, I started an extreme exercise class, and this morning I learned what an hour of plyometrics can do to a middle-aged body. Exhaust it is what. Which in turn leads to a sluggish state of mind, especially when the class started at 5:45 a.m. and I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before.
Okay, enough whining and moaning. Through sheer stubbornness and frequent breaks, I got through another day's work. Five pages. Some interesting background details on two characters, one primary, one secondary. The purposes of these scenes were twofold: to give the reader an understanding of who the characters are—the dirt on them—and to show that their future actions will be consistent with their personalities.
Day 10 of writing my new novel is done.
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