The writing has stalled for a week. Of the two parts, as I see them - the fantastic plot and the real details - I'm much more interested in the details. Those flow, but they are not what will make the novel. I need to think about it all the time, to plot it, but I'm not really interested in that. I knew it - I always lacked ambition.
Coincidentally, or not, the pain has also subsided. The last time it flared up it was different. It was in the chest, the solar plexus, or the heart. Where it belongs. Since then my depression has abated somewhat. I can contemplate the day ahead without wanting to end it.
Writing is both a chore and a pleasure. I avoid it, but then am relieved to be doing it. It's the only thing that stops time. It's painful, but I seek out pain. It's the only emotion I can feel. I do the same when I wake up in the middle of the night. I think of painful things until I get tired enough and can fall asleep again.
The question is whether the writing makes it harder or easier to be me. That's what I have to figure out.