Memorial Friday

The week leading up to Memorial Day weekend has been a weird week.  I've been a little blue--I was going to say I wasn't sure where it was coming from... but some of it is writer envy, which is petty and I should get over it, but still, there it is.  Some of it is frustration with the novel, which is going slowly... but it's still going forward.  I suspect there's a cartoon somewhere of the writing process where the writer alternates between Loving the Work and Loathing the Work (and themselves).

And then there's that leaden fist of shadow pressing into my sterum--maybe a waking relative of the nightmare that crouches on one's chest at 3:20 in the morning--that turns everything grey and dull and tired, even too tired for sarcasm.   Some of it might be pollen.  Some of it might be free-floating adult anxiety about bills, health, taxes, death, and where I'm going to be in thirty years (living in a culvert with imaginary friends?)  Some of it might be the sad and angsty music playing in my head (note to self, compiling that Rejection Music List was a bad idea; play 80's dance music instead).  Other times I'm more-or-less fine.

Maybe it's man-opause.