Stirrings of Bleah

Wednesday Work-out:  Spent a little extra time on the rowing machine 130 calories in 15 minutes.  Then did various things with the weights-on-strings station.  I also try a free-weight thing that has my upper pectoral muscles sore two days later.

Thursday Word Count:  I thought if I looked at a Very Rough Draft of a story, that my brain would work on it as I slept.  It didn't.  When I woke up a little early, I wanted to get a little more sleep, but I tried to think about the story some more.  I didn't.  I got up at about 5:30 and had a slow morning.  I edited the beginning of a short piece, and by edit, I mean I typed in the long-hand stuff (75 words?) I'd penned in the previous night.   Then I did administrative stuff, like posted my story for critique, and posted another story for my prompt swap.

Friday morning I slept in.

The last three mornings, I've felt the Stirrings of Bleah.  The opening of the Pit of Despair in my stomach.  The Bleak Tea-Time of the Soul.  It's not sadness, exactly, more just a sense of futility -- and then I start feeling like a French Existentialist or a Ingmar Bergman.

I don't want to think about it too much, otherwise I'll get focused on feeling Bleah and have a Sisyphean boulder to push around until the Spring Equinox.   Maybe I need to get a little more sleep, or maybe the switch from daylight savings has thrown me off, or maybe it's the shortening daylight hours.  It's possible that I might have to switch from early morning writing to working past 8:30 PM... Ugh, that seems like a really good way to Not Get Enough Sleep.  Sometimes, doing more graphic and paper design helps.  Oh well.  I think it's time to break out a really big lamp or something.