It's one in the morning and I'm awake, working actually, but not writing.
I'm not in a comfortable setting.
I am beneath florescent lights and swallowing burnt coffee (with only half the caffeine - still two months left until I can insert an IV of the real deal into my creative life.) I'm listening to elevator muzak and the buzz of computers on either side of me. I'm tired, in search of toothpicks to hold my lids open already. It is only two hours into my shift.
Oh, and there's more.
My rings are on. My shoes are on. The chair is too low for the desk. I'm not sitting cross-legged on my bed. It's warm here. Too warm. I think my fingers and feet are starting to swell.
Excuse. Excuse. Excuse.
It's less than six months now until my self imposed deadline for novel completion. Excuses or not, I can't let this entire shift slip by without putting (definitely swelling now) fingers to keyboard and getting something on the page.