It's the end of my second week of term-time now back in Southampton. I didn't realise how hard it would be to write during this time. Waking up earlier than usual to write is not only difficult, but I find myself too dazed, too weak, too tired to come up with any ideas. In the next few weeks I'll continue to experiment with my routine. But this is tough.
With the little time I find for writing, I am trying to force myself through a particularly bleak patch within the story. I say the word 'patch', but perhaps I mean something much vaster than that. I can't be sure either way. It's so dark in here, I can't see the end of it.
Joking aside though, this is tough. I write about somebody uncovering horrors nestled deep within the dark, dank caverns of their mind. And then finally I stop. I get out. I come up for air.