I got no writing done at all today. Bookstart was delayed by research roadblocks, and I’m way behind.
What I did get done—yesterday I got a haircut and other various body-maintenance procedures including GOING TO THE DOCTOR like a BADASS (I am terrified of the doctor). And cleaning the kitchen while having a fight with my husband. MULTITASKING. Then stayed up half the night unfucking a social situation.
Didn’t sleep well. Duh.
Today I committed bed-making, teaching a group of folks over at the senior center how to use a Mac, and picking up my animals from their vet checkups. Making dinner (roasted lemon chicken, arugula salad, parmesan pesto bread). Maybe half a blog post.
But no work. I just unraveled at the end of the day. I have no me left.
I’m trying not to feel bad about it. I can’t do anything to fix it. Telling myself I’ll write 10,000 words tomorrow is unhelpful and lolleriffic in its unlikelihood, so I just…I don’t know. Gotta keep on. Accept that some stuff will probably be a week late and hope that the publishing gods forgive me.
I feel really drained of creative energy, to be honest. Scraped over too much bread. GODDAMMIT I HAVE TO STOP LISTENING TO BON IVER IT’S ONLY MAKING ME EMO AS SHIT.
Anyway. THE THING IS I want so badly, so terribly badly to be this guy:
I want to be Dale Cooper! He is my spirit animal. I want to be all slick and competent and intuitive and enthusiastic and FUCK YEAH DAMN FINE COFFEE DIANE TIBETAN ROCK THROWING.
But most of the time I’m this guy instead.
And every night I swear I’m gonna be Dale Cooper tomorrow and some days, very few and precious days, I almost am. But today I was a panda on a rocking horse. Motherfucker.
Maybe tomorrow, I will be a better girl.