When I was writing fiction, regularly, way back in the Deep Dark Before Times when I wasn’t running a small business, juggling customers and chemicals in equal measure, I remember I used to be non-functional until around 1pm. Nothing got written until 1pm, and then boom, three hours of productivity.
Maybe it was years of conditioning – get shit done while my babies are napping. Maybe it’s just how my brain works. I just remember that I didn’t knock it, and I knew how my process worked, with the jiggle juggle of very small children and a need to write dripping off my fingers.
So why now do I feel terribly unaccomplished if I haven’t managed to do anything productive before 11am? And sure, I’ve usually gotten my children off to school, and replied to work emails, and fed all of my animals, and put washing on, and made breakfast…
But somehow none of that feels productive. Just exhausting.
I didn’t get out to the studio today until 11am, and sure, I am also a little bit sick, but I still felt awful as I sat on the couch with a cup of tea, and read a book, and replied to work messages, and planned. Why does planning feel so unproductive? Why does resting feel like slacking? Why is my brain trying to sabotage my efforts to not actually fall apart?
Because no matter how well I medicate myself, my joints are still falling apart, ligaments like warm bubblegum, no snap back in sight. I dislocate my shoulder taking off a shirt if I’m not careful, and my wrists go pop pop pop when I move my hands, in out in, out in out, and it’s all paaaaiin, no matter what.
Blech. This is not meant to be the blog for this, but it’s quiet over here now, silent and a bit forgotten, so maybe I’m entitled to a little bit of a whinge about sabotaging brains and a headache I can’t seem to shake.
(It’s 3pm now, and I have been a little bit more productive. Sure, the kitchen bench is untidy and that always makes my brain a bit spinny, but lye is mixed and cooling, my recipes for tomorrow are organised neatly, I posted a letter, I’ve fed all of my birds, eggs are stamped for sale, and I’m prepared for my shop to be open tomorrow, and the planned customers to come and see me…)
Writing is like a muscle and I haven’t been flexing mine very often. Sure, updates on facebook about frivolous things, but I miss this.
So. Here we are. Practising again.
