The Next Disappointment?

I'm finding myself thinking a lot about writing. Lying in bed at night spinning elegant, emotionally rich sentences. Sentences that speak volumes about character and motivation and backstory and plot. I'm finding myself not getting up from bed to capture those ideas.

Is it that my physical health seems to be taking precedence this first week of this 40th year? That my need to feel on a healthy path is more powerful than my need to feel on an artistic one? I mean, I'm reading and editing a ton, and having a smart, artsy movie renaissance.

So perhaps "the next disappointment" is too strong. Maybe I should trust my "I'll write on every other Friday - at least" plan. (Ask me on Monday how that went.) ;)