banausic reverie

Good word, that. Banausic.

1. Merely mechanical; routine: “a sensitive, self-conscious creature... in sad revolt against uncongenially banausic employment” (London Magazine).
2. Of or relating to a mechanic.

Nearly perfect. It's always heartening to find a good word. My favorite is when the word has multiple definitions and all of them fit; all of them contribute to your current need. Banausic doesn't quite work that way, but it seems to be how things are going for now. Nothing is exellent. It's just... going. Routine.

Expectation: good enough.

I'm rather at a low point, I suspect. Nothng bad in particular has happened; I'm just set on coast. Kids are good, sex is way above average, dog is happy and healthy, I'm working out again a lot in preparation for boarding.

It's not all deliriousness, of course. I haven't been out in awhile, and no one seems to want to go. The Indulgers play Friday and now PHF is sick with what appears to be the flu. It could be that I'm still feeling low from my own three week sick jag that seems to be dragging on. My voice is still not completely there, but I'm able to sing along with the radio (badly) and I answer the phone now.

I've rearranged the shelves in my study. I'm catching up (again) on the bank statements. I've written a pretty good short story lately which stretched my own social and writing mores (the one piece that doesn't seem to raise my ire at my own inability.) I got a kick-ass new boarding jacket. I bought new rugs for the kitchen and I'm getting a fresh coat of white paint on all the trim in my house--a much needed, yet significant, expensive undertaking. But still... I'm obviously needing to organize or shake things up, because that petty shit isn't working.

I think it's that life is set on FF while I'm shifting through still shots.

It's because of the writing, of course, though I haven't paid nearly enough dues to feel this way. I haven't recieved any recent major rejections; I haven't been scoffed or derided by the critique group. I'm writing, every day. But right now laundry looks fun in comparison. Everything I write is shit. All my past work seems to be shit, as well--rife with stupid mistakes and missed opportunities.

I realize it's as simple as perception slanted by temperament. Why else would one day I love my work and the next hate it so? But the real question that nags is which slant is correct? Is the mirror right or is my perception correct? In other words, if it truly is shit, then why proceed? (Well, I know I would continue to write--that'd be like stopping the tides or keeping my daughter from harrassing the dog.) But I could give up on "the dream" I suppose. I wouldn't submit happily, but it's not as if writing is all I've got in my life. I'm extremely fortunate by any standard. Wonderful husband, adorable kiddos, two great homes, friends, blah blah blah...

Only, I can't. I can't feature a future without a book, or actually many, in print. I suspect this is when the tough get going?

And so, this is why I'm so low. So eh. Over damn work.

If anybody's in the mood for a pep talk, I'm listening...

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