It's a little disheartening, and not at all lost on me how similar it feels to following a career in writing, to spend so much time on something, dedicating waking hours and breaths to a task, only to have it fail.
That's the end goal, isn't it? Just write the book. Make all your dreams come true.
You can't "go beyond plus ultra" if you're already "going beyond plussing ultra" somewhere else.
And long stretches of time when nothing is being accomplished can feel lonely. And empty. And futile.
With that the top of mind, here are my happy places:
*Note: Copied over from morning pages journal vol. 11, personal journal vol. 14, dated 2/16/2021
I daydream about what my ideal life as a writer will be like.
