I have a short story to turn in this week for workshopping next week. I have a handful of stories to turn in to my thesis director this week for perusal. (And there are manuscripts to critique, and a book to read–ha! That book is going to be largely unread. The manuscripts–definitely to be read).
It’s a mad world of writing–going out for lunch with friends…then coming back home to write…going for a leisurely drive with the hubby, coming home to write…eat…write…drink…write. I’m exhausted. I wake up in the middle of the night, a rare struggle with insomnia, watch TiVO, drink some water, go back to bed at 5am. Wake up. Write. Weigh myself, berate myself for the weight gained. Write.
After what has been a soul sucking bout of writer’s bloc in previous weeks, the words are coming. Not thousands of words a day, but a thousand (or two). I’ll take that. I’m afraid to stop writing, I don’t want to stop the flow. I feel like calling in sick to work, I’m loathe to socialize with friends, I want to catch the spill. I don’t want to feel the way I’ve been feeling the last few weeks again. I’m desperate. I’m frantic. At least I’m not depressed and helpless.
I don’t even know if what’s coming out of me is any good at all, but the quantity is there.