I woke up feeling sluggish, the drugs barely out of my system. The night felt strange, with pain and fear layered over a haze of things that I guessed weren’t really there. I wanted to sleep, but I owed the world a blog post. I owed myself five pages of my WIP. After that I’d need to get to my day job, and I’d promised a coworker we’d hit the gym.
It was dark in my bedroom and cold outside the covers. I spent thirty minutes indulging in escapist fantasies. I’d call in sick to the day job, it wouldn’t be lie: after three migraines in four days I counted as sick. I’d sleep, long hours of bliss. Then I’d write in the absolute quiet of an empty house. I’d prepare for the week ahead, lay out clothes, put together meals, get things done. I gave up on the fantasies and went back to reality, wrapping myself in wool against the chill of the room. Covers always seemed warmer when you’ve left them.
At my computer I struggled for more than a few minutes trying to graft a paragraph on to a blog post I’d left half written, well aware that during weeks when I was following my schedule the post would already be up. None of my words felt right. Frustrated I opened a new window, thinking I’d start over. I decided to type exactly what I was feeling:
I’m trying, damn it.
There’s a Star Wars quote I wear around my neck sometimes: do or do not, there is no try. I went back to the blog post, came up with something. Not my finest words, but they got the point across. Window closed, my angry sentence stared up at me. I felt irritated, annoyed. I didn’t want to do what I said I would. I wanted other things. I deserved better. Who could I give all those emotions to?
The monster in my WIP. There’s nothing like a serial killer/demon to take all your hate off your hands. Thirty minutes later I wrapped up a couple thousand words and left all my anger on the page. Sometimes, writing is great that way.