You never realise how hard getting back to writing is going to be until you try it. For the last few weeks, I’ve been working 12-15 hours a day, six days a week. The seventh day – thanks, God, for setting the precedent – has been a day of lying around with my face on the sofa and my mouth hanging open, going, “Hoooowwww loooooonnnnggg caannnn thiiiissss keeeeeep goooooinnnng?”
Otherwise known as ‘resting’.
Business is booming, which is lovely. But when your business is a one-woman show, that tends to mean putting aside such frivolities as hobbies. With the way things have been going, eating, sleeping and breathing have been sliding bit by bit into the category of “leisure pursuits”. Optional leisure pursuits, for that matter.
Well, “No more!”, says I. From here on, I’m determined to put some time aside for non-work writing, if only for the sake of my poor brain, which, frankly, is getting a bit mushy and needs an outlet.
I’m low on sleep, low on creativity and low on energy. The fact that the neighbour’s cat broke into my room through the balcony doors last night, waking me up in a fit of terror and throwing its very own panic party (flinging its body around in a way that only young cats can), didn’t help, but that’s by the by. Hurtling, furry bodies aside, I am determined to slow the pace and get back to doing things I love. I might have to sneeze out a few sub-standard snippets before I get back into the swing, but I’m sure we’ll get there eventually.
“Yeah, yeah” you say, if you’re even there at all. “Yeah, yeah.”
We’ll see, eh?