And then I slept until 8, which also almost never happens. But apparently I needed it.
I blame the Greg Bear book I'm reading, which has a lot of explosions but no volcanoes (so far). Apparently my brain needed to one-up him. I'm trying to explain to it that this is one fight it's never going to win.
Spring is springing out there. It's sunny and beautiful, and a balmy 49 degrees, nonsensical American system. (This is not particularly balmy, for those of you who use the other system with the boiling water and stuff.)
There's no sign yet that my brain is regenerating. I expect that means that today will be another day of wandering aimlessly around the house forgetting cups of tea to cool in various neglected corners. For example, I've been meaning to listen to Morning Edition for an hour now, and also get some food in me, and it hasn't happened yet. The tea did get made, though, on the third attempt.
That's one thing they don't warn you about with regard to the Itinerant Novelist thing. You remember what the week or two after finals was like, when you were in school? Where your brain just stopped functioning? Yeah. Writing as a career means intentionally putting myself in that state of brain-scrapedy about three or four times a year.
At least I'm starting to accept that I'm useless for a week or three, and plan for it.
And now maybe I can get some food in me before I get distracted again.
What was I doing?