I haven't posted much lately.
I've been wrestling morewith the writing of my manuscript, rather than just the planning, and it's definitely more exhausting.
And I've been starting to notice the weeds. Starting to pull them up from the garden of my mind so they stop smothering the wildflowers. Weeds like the virulent belief that progress isn't valid if it's not somehow "consistent." Or those unpleasantly thorny pieces of self I've been ignoring so long I forgot how they were impacting my writing.
Pulling weeds is a lot of work. Sometimes I only have enough energy left afterwards to tap out a few sentences. And there is no "consistent" to the progress. No pattern. No habit. Not even a rhythm.
A good friend recently told me that they don't try for consistent anymore. They start each day with a hope and maybe a plan, so that's my new goal. Each day is it's own.