Okay I needed to get over it and I think I am...finally. I won't list all the petty little things that are broken, malfunctioning, or just plain problematic, over the last week or so, actually they still ARE, but it's time to let it go. The weather here has conspired to put me into a good mood, the scale has groaned to let me know it's time to take charge of my hand-to-mouth hyperactivity, and reading JCO's Will You Still Love Me has inspired me to get back to work.
I don't know where or why these funks penetrate my psyche but they do and the whole time I'm experiencing them one little high-pitched voice in my ear is yelling, "Stop, you idiot! Stop acting like a suicide-bomber!" while another voice, lower, less shrill, decidedly more seductive whispers, "It's okay, baby. Just let it happen. Whip up those pancakes. Take that nap. Who cares? No one cares unless it interferes with their agendas. You're on your own. Do whatever the hell you want."
Oh, that's scary. Maybe I shouldn't publish this. Kind of private. But I will because I want to continue going for the deep bone-scraping truth in my writing. Plus no one but my sister really reads this.
So I'm on the upswing for a while and since I recognize it as such, I must take advantage of it. I'm working on a schedule today, writing by the clock to insure I get things accomplished. I have been daunted by the task of the book. It's so unwieldy, those 379 pages slip-sliding out of my hands as I carry it around the house--to the living room to read through and make notes, five minutes later to the dining room table to lay it out and stand over it, still with the phone ringing, out to the garage where it's more private, then back upstairs to the computer with the internet, am I certain the bikini testing had happened yet?
So it goes. Today I'm staying in the garage, leaving for nothing short of an earthquake until I feel I'm am pulling up the glued edge at the corner of this story, have the task loosened up and can get a hold of it to rip.