And it's not even about writing. It's about programming.
But it holds perfectly true for me and writing, and sometimes there are days like today--not helped by it being in the mid-eighties for the first time this summer--that sleep seems impossible. And there ain't no melatonin I can take.
After cheerily churning out 6,000 words on Satuday I spent ALL of Sunday arguing with myself about fairy alchemy and what that would consist of, excoriating myself for lack of being good at coming up with Plot and threat-matrices for my characters, and hating life. I baked, I knit, I played Rock Band, I wrestled with my dog--still couldn't sleep.
I think I sort of have the chapter in my head now but I'm still not really happy with it. I feel like there's some Awesome I don't quite have, that my ideas are not Awesome enough yet.
Whenever I complain about things like this, my Beast always kisses my forehead and exclaims: Thirty-three misfortunes! Which is a Russian saying for everything being a mess. My brain always wants to add: but a bitch ain't one to that, because I am a decadent American girl. But I feel like that today--nothing's really all that bad, I'm just bookblocked. The root here would be cockblocked, not writer's block--I don't really believe in writer's block. Or at least, I can't believe in it and keep functioning. But my personal lameness, procrastination, and inability to come up with sufficient Awesome can get in the way of congress with my book.
Apropos of nothing, I was deeply creeped out by this video, sent to me by pachamama , in which the universe mocks my noble sacrifice by pointing out that if you strip the goth make up off of her, Amy Lee and I are apparently secret twins. (The money shot is at 1:49--justbeast and I both sort of jumped back, that's how eerie it is.)
Aaaaand the gem just came out of my nose piercing. Literally just fell onto the keyboard with a little plink. WTF? Second nose piercing to bork itself in a week!