Is it the effect of spring, or is it something else more insidious? All the federal political shenannigans, all that swinging from political trees to very little effect may be part of what's causing me to be on the seesaw too.
It's been a time of swinging up and down. Starting a story and then leaving it and then tinkering, adding a few wee bits and leaving it in the lurch again.
Theres a bird, a type of thrush I think, somewhere in the trees on a neigbour's property that starts singing at 3 a.m. and does not stop until about 7 a.m. It's confused, like me.
Could it be that what I think is angst about whether I can write fiction that will be good enough to be published is actually only butter withdrawal? I thought I was doing quite well, adjusting to the lack of high cholesterol foods, but then I had a butter dream. Skim milk in my coffee is tolerable, low fat mayo is - well, not the same, but acceptable. but healthy margarine just seems tasteless, like a tacky pop singer trying to sing an aria.
Perhaps I can push up the seesaw with a little positive action.