I'm frazzled. I cannot write another sentence. Not one that makes any sense, anyway.
Sixteen days of non-stop work/eat/work/write/nap/work/eat/work/write/nap has apparently taken its toll.
It is Day 16 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge, right?
Whatever day it is, I am officially declaring myself an exhausted, blathering idiot, awhirl in the throes of acute memory malaise and polyorbitol puffiness (bags under the eyes).
Other tell-tale signs that I have deprived myself of sufficient shut-eye in my quest to write every day for roughly six weeks straight?
Can't think. Can't type. A hair dizzy. A tish cranky. And I'm starting to see Care Bears.
Not to worry, though.
I'm, good! I'm good!
However, if suddenly I begin belting out random show tunes, say, songs from The Sound of Music or The Music Man? Call the damn doctor. Fast. For that, my friends, is a bright, red flag signaling that, indeed, I have gone over the top. Or bottomed out.
I need sleep.
But I need writing more. It makes me happy.
Time and time again I have ignored my passion for the written word, neglected my muse in the name of earning a blessed buck or keeping a clean house (or watching NCIS marathons on the USA channel), and time and time again my soul has suffered.
When will I ever learn? Writing is one of my life-long favorite things. And sure as shootin', the minute I start writing again, there is a noticeable new spring in my step and a gleam in my eye, and I see my entire life in a better, more positive light...
Ergo, when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my fa-vor-ite things, and then I don't feeeeeel so bad...
Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.