A Writer's Notebook, Two-Thousand-And-One-Hundred-And-Six

I have been working quite hard on writing fiction and I feel that I am making real progress, but there are always nights where I find myself staring at a blank page without much certainty of what to do.  It never prevents me from coming up with something, and there are, more and more, times when the results surprise me, when I write something that I feel has a bit of real life to it despite its haphazard beginning.  Still, there are other times when I just have to push myself to get anything out, and what results is often just a bit of a description about some event or even just a triviality of daily living.  I suppose there is probably merit to some of these, but I know that when I write them I am just struggling to get the minimum done.  Still, there is a victory in knowing that even on my worst days, I am still writing something.

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