Deathwish?

A powerful light shines in the dark.

I’m haunted by the ghost of my inner me.  In the wee small hours of the morning, when there’s no one to tell you to get your ass to bed, a virus takes hold and strangles your brain.  Schedules, routines – such mundane and tedious stalwarts of responsibility.  Can anyone relate when I write – sometimes we just don’t want what we need.  We just don’t want them so badly that we reject them like the plague and grasp at other worlds of adventure like, “What’s in the fridge?” and “what’s the lyrics of that song in my head?”

Perhaps this is what becomes of not bearing children and maturing into older years having only ever concerned myself with the needs of another adult.  Caring for myself not as a person who must go on for the rearing and survival of a small brood, but as a semi-independent partner.  When the chips are down and sleep is essential, I have some kind of alter-ego that whips into action and stirs my brain, revs my sluggishness, and prevents a restful nature.  It’s almost as if there’s a war and some part of me is fighting, but against whom or what – and even if my ghost wins I lose.

The road will tell me why.  Here’s praying that caffeine and a direction will sane me up.

**Note to my faithful followers – it’s been so long.  I have hope for the future of my writing after a couple of co-workers unknowingly talked an “intervention” my way today.  Stress.  Homesickness.  Heartache.  Upsidedowness.  But I can see the saddle; it’s in my cross hairs.  I’m going to get back in it.  Please stick with me.

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The Disappearance of inturruptingcow

I went on a trip on a train.  I played my role as devoted, loving partner and got a little time with my Love.  I found my story on the train ride back.  I can’t write anything else.

Now I’m stuck on 4000 words.  Approximately 180,000 words according to King’s book On Writing, and I’m stuck at 4000.  I don’t know if it’s being off my routine so long, the stress at work, or being away from M and all that is comforting, but I can’t get the rest out.  When I try, my head hurts.  Yet I don’t have anything else that feels worth writing.

In my slump I find that when I can’t look at the screen and see the story my next inclination is to slither into slothfulness.  I even turned on the stupid box today.  Feels like I’m losing.

Broken Mosey

Mornings for me are a bit wonky.  Is this not an accurate statement for 80 percent of the population?  I have always felt that I have a knack for empathy and can sense what is somewhat “usual” for others.  I can’t imagine that there are many people that don’t feel slightly off-kilter in the morning for at least a modicum of time.  Depending on how I feel the night before, I set my alarm for a “get up and write” amount of time, or a “latest possible” time hack.  Either way, I have to have my “mosey time” each morning or I am not suitable for the outside world.

For those curious among you – “mosey time” is that dimension of space between now and then that is not assigned to any required outcome.  Continue reading