it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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upon the instruments of death the sunlight brightly gleams

Trust me, you don't want to marry a writer. Or any kind of creative artist, really.

This is not pretty.

It's the end of the book. Since Saturday, I've barely left the house. I had to look at a calendar to figure out what day it is. If I'm away from my keyboard, I'm bitchy and distracted, because the story is eating my head. I'm getting about two thousand words a day, which, okay, for mizkit or jaylake is a solid hour, hour and a half work, but for me is ten hours of butt in chair, punctuated by sanity breaks. I'm washing my underwear in the sink because I can't get the emotional energy together to do laundry (fortunately, I have enough shirts that I can stay clothed without resorting to wearing laundry, and nobody can tell if your black jeans are dirty anyway). If I hadn't had the foresight to make and freeze several pots of healthy veggie-packed soup in anticipation of this day, I'd be living off Purina Student Chow* and not noticing. After a while, my hands start to hurt, and even the pauses for research piss me off, because if I wasn't so stupid I didn't know this already, I could be getting more words now. I could be done by now if I didn't have to sleep, eat, or pee! I'll take the garbage out tomorrow, just shove it down a little! I'll wash the dishes tomorrow! I'll do the laundry next week! I'll sweep the floor when the book is done!

Yessir. When the end is in sight, I get a little bit crazy.

Just a little.

And then I will finish the book, and I will get to use this icon, and it will be accurate, because I will be exhausted and stupid for at least two days. I will eat when I remember to. I will sit on the sofa and drool. I will clean the apartment, because cleaning is mindless and the place will be too filthy to bear. I will go to the gym, and I will remember to play my guitar again, and I will go for walks, and I will call my mother and my friends and email my dad. I will buy groceries, instead of wondering what I can make with a can of condensed milk and three tangerines and then forgetting to eat while I get another five hundred words.

Balance and sanity will resume.

Until the next time.

I'm within fifty pages of the end, I think. I could conceivably finish this by Friday and be a sane person for the Thing on Saturday. If, you know, wearing drip-dry underwear.

Right. Coffee's ready. Break's over, Bear, back on your head.


Justine say, "Your Book No Belonga You. She's right as usual.

*Ramen Shame, to be precise
Tags: the writer at work, tmi

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