Normal difficulties arise with editing, and with those difficulties, doubts. Is this really a story worth telling? Would anyone read it? Does that matter?
I find solace in my poetry. Coming back and reading it after having put it away for a while is comforting.
Unlike writing a complex story, poetry, at least short poems, give more immediate gratification I can read them and feel a sense of accomplishment: I've done this before. I've completed a satisfying work of written art. Don't let the doubt creep in.
Aside from poetry, pretty things sustain me. The comforts of home. Domesticity takes so much of a backseat in the writing lifestyle, at least in my lifestyle. Home-spun wool. A magazine leafed with whimsical curiosity. The black paper-cut silhouette of my son on the mantle. It may seem strange, but these are the things that motivate me to clean out the pantry, to wash the dishes, and shake out the rugs.
And maybe a clean house will feel like a clear head, and aid the writing process as well.
Spinning is like writing. A lot of things are like writing, I think, and even more things are like spinning. But this connection is especially poignant. You've got this stuff, this potential--clean, washed, and shining. But you have to work it. Twist it. It doesn't come out ready. I mean, is it beautiful by itself, without being worked? Yes. But when you transform it into yarn, that is when it becomes something useful, something essential.