I had no coffee today and felt the clean lethargy of withdrawal but it was minor, not the cataclysmic migraine some people get. My body can easily acclimate to change as long as it's not weather-related. Writing is something best done with a hot beverage in hand though.
Kukicha tea was a substitute for a while and then, green tea and Postum, which tasted like melted brown crayons.
It is still novel-writing month and I had my normal bout of belligerence with the thought of writing one in November, not because it is a one-month assignment or because it's November, but because I have to wrestle like a crocodile at the conformity aspect or the footballness of it -- a team sport with plenty of head injuries.
Writing is about the love, not the vain glory or pain... I think. And sometimes, there is a little bit of solace and therapy in creating art as well and having the guts to call one's own work art. It's a pretty word although it rhymes with an inelegant one.
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