A Writer's Notebook, Day Two-Hundred-And-Sixty-Four

I am not certain what the writing that I did today really amounts to, if I am honest.  I wrote three or so new poems, but I don't feel that any of them are anything all that great at present, and am not sure that they are really at a place where I want to devote the attention that they need to them.  Some of this may be me being hard on the work, but I didn't feel that inspired, honestly. 

Now, that may be, in some level, a bit bleak, but I also am considering this a success, in that I kept at the work, even when I wasn't feeling it, and I tend to think that a day like today may just be a bit of a test from whatever does bring inspiration.  In some way, it feels like there is a fickle quality to the muse, who wishes only to bestow gifts on me when I am willing to remain dedicated even in her absence, as though leaving is a test of my loyalty.  So, to keep at the work, well, that is a victory, even when the work produced may be of lesser merit.  Besides, if I am writing so many pieces at this speed, I have to expect some will be inferior...

Had a nice brunch with my mother for Mother's day, and tried to take the day off from dealing with that other stuff I've mentioned.  Honestly, it has not entirely worked, but I am going to take this evening off after I finish here and take it easy.  Back to it tomorrow, though.

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