Another day of cleaning. I finally got the last room of my house in order and it feels awesome. My novel, on the other hand, does NOT feel awesome.

In fact, if my novel were a person, I would punch it in the face.

My day was going well. I had cleaned the bathrooms and folded the laundry and vacuumed and emptied the dishwasher, and I was proud of accomplishing so much. And then I sat down to write.

And proceeded to stare at my open word document, contempt seeping through my veins.

I have to resist the urge to type, "And Mari had the baby and it was cute. The End." And be done with the entire project. I won't, of course. I'll struggle and swear and ponder throwing my laptop out the window until I actually finish. But I won't be happy about it. No siree Bob.

Okay, that's a lie. I'll totally be happy about it. I'm sure I'll do a happy dance and shriek with excitement when I reach the end. I'm sure I'll be walking on air for at least a week, maybe two. Until I get around to the revisions.

Then this horrible process will start all over again.

You ever ask yourself why you do this? Are we all destined to loathe the very same thing we love? Does that make us insane?

Sorry about my moodiness. I'll be back to my usual self by tomorrow (I hope!)

Hope everyone is having a Fabulous Friday!