It was pleasant to receive a call from the local newspaper's editor yesterday. He acknowledged a column submission I made, said he planned to run it tomorrow and went over a couple of glitches with me. He agreed to run a head-shot of my younger son, around whom the column was focused, and I sent him a jpeg.
But today, although I wrote the column last week and can't quite remember its structure or particulars, I feel grey and somehow out of gas. It's not just the whispering postpartum blues that go with completing almost any project. Grey is grey and it seems to cover the skies of 'writing' today.
Writing ... so what? Same shit, different day.
No doubt it will pass, but it hasn't passed yet.