Channeled my vile mood into my writing. Apparently my muse was feeling goth, because she just ate up my blue funk. Good for her. I wasn't up to picking up any of my WIPs--deficient attention span to go with my grim emotional state--so I did some flash. That worked surprisingly well. I actually started and completed two <1K pieces. Cathartic success. Twisted little things, the both of them. I handed one over to fosteronfilm to first reader. The second one I think needs a tweak or two at the end to punch it up before I show it to him.
I may feel like a cement mixer rolled over my soul, but at least it's pumping ye olde writing bellows. Yay?
New Words: 2000
Club 100 For Writers