A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Six-Hundred-And-Fifty-Four

I felt unusually good about my writing tonight.  To be honest, I am not even certain why, or if the feeling is any kind of reflection of the work's quality, but I did have a particular sense as was writing, especially in terms of my poetry, that I was really in the zone.  It may be true, of course, and I might review these poems in the coming days and discover that I have done some truly astounding work, but I rather doubt it, in truth.  I tend to think this type of feeling is just that, though it does not mean it is any less valuable to me.  The value of it is not in terms of what I am able to create because I am in the right mental state or whatever, but rather just the sense of connection to the work that comes, the sense of confidence in my ability.  There is even something rewarding about realizing that the work I create when I am in that state is not all that distinct from what I write at other times.  To be honest, I don't find myself having this kind of experience as often as I might wish, and it would probably be quite upsetting if something so random and sporadic became the key ingredient for writing at my best.