In the morning we're off to Trinoc-con, which ought to be fun as always. We get to see the friends we only see once a year (usually -- we, of course, saw Susan and Ron just a couple of weeks ago) to hang out and just generally have fun. Despite the anticpation I've had a lugubrious mood of hopelessness descend upon me, where I feel like everything I have ever written is crap. Which makes it hard to choose something to read for Sunday--something I usually look forward to doing, but at the moment makes me want to shrink into the ground.
Maybe the feeling will pass. It's what usually happens when I haven't been writing for a while. Cross-country moves are not conducive to writing much. The muscles atrophy and the confidence fades. The work that seems effortless at other times seems impossible now. Of course, that's a lie too -- it's seldom effortless. Occasional short bursts, perhaps, but on the whole it's always hard. Sometimes it's easier to try though. When it's good, you can write crap, delete it and go on to better. When it's bad, you write crap, delete it and give up. It's okay to write crap. Everybody does. It's the not giving up part that's hard. But there's no other cure than going on, writing crap until it gradually gets better again. So I should get back to it.