Stagnation. The ease of water into the pool stops; it ceases to flow outwards. Day by day it decays imperceptibly, until miasmic and sludgy it serves only as a breeding ground for filth and mosquitoes.
Such feelings of despondency are the rite of passage for any perspiring author, published or not. Is this where it ends, a battle hardly begun to culminate in defeat? Am I to be finished here, not the book?
I indulge such tender feelings because they provide the illusion of a journey, and serve to create a sense of rise and fall, the dramatic heartbeat of any artist. In truth I see it with the eyes of a bird, able to imagine but not interact with the grounded perspective enjoyed by so many others and instead sentenced to view it with the unimpassioned nod of a 'been there, done that' curmudgeon who knows that his moment, if not now, will come sooner or later.
It always does.