Sunday was the first day that I was able to relax since finishing the first draft of book two of the YA series, Love Letters, I'm writing. My bestie from another mama was in town. My bestie editor, reader, confidant had just returned from a trip to O Canada! Sunday I rested. I watched movies. I got sucked into Netflix series Love. I didn't want to do anything, but I wanted to do something. D asked if I wanted to go to the pool, and I did want to go, but I didn't want to get dressed, pack our pool gear, drive to the other side of town, then back. I stayed on the couch.
Monday, I pressed snooze instead of going to boxing. Two days in a row, I broke my 30 days of fitness goals. I slept in the with Faustino the dog and watched DVR'd Bones episodes. D left for work. I was annoyed with myself for still not wanting to do anything, but still didn't want to do anything. I took a shower. I put my phone on silent. The world was loud. I thought about writing and my hands preemptively ached. I sorted laundry and watched Blindspot. I wanted comfort food so I made picadillo with sopita. When D arrived home from work he saw that I'd only moved from the bed to the living room. He said hi and I just smiled.
I hadn't spoken since the morning.
When he got home from boxing, I was posting stuff online to sell. When he asked what was wrong, I said I just didn't feel like talking. In fact, I didn't even want to talk to him, which never happens.
I am naturally a chatter box. I can talk to almost anyone. I say almost because a girl has to draw a line somewhere.
Tuesday, I felt better, but small things irritated me. The way a friend answered a text. The list of things I needed to get done, which was really not very big. I went to boxing thinking the exercise would help. It usually does, but it only helped a little. At lunch, I met another friend for wings, beer, and lesson planning. I went to Target and bought summer shorts and funny tees. My mood was lightening. When I got home, D looked at me his eyes weary. They said, "Is she still weird?" I apologized for not wanting to talk. In all my mood swing weirdness through the years that has never happened. I text my bestie from another mama and told her I'd been a grouch since she'd left back to Austin. She was having a bad day too. I felt better. Why do two grouches make a peas and carrots combo better?
Today, I am myself. On the way to a doctor's appointment, I sang my heart out in the car to the 90's grunge station on Sirius radio. I felt light. The lightest I'd felt in days.
This is what it is like to be creative. At least for me. I binged all the juice out of my brain and then I crashed. It is almost a manic episode, but it only happens when I write. This happened to me before, when I was writing about Ita for Por Un Amor, but that time I thought it was because I was writing about my Ita. My dead Ita. Various versions of this have been said, "If you want to live forever, marry a writer." It's true.
Even when I'm writing fiction the besties are there in various forms. D is there. I am there. I work so hard to make everything real, that I pour myself on the page. I thought writing YA romance would be easier. The last three days have proven that's not true.
Monday, I pressed snooze instead of going to boxing. Two days in a row, I broke my 30 days of fitness goals. I slept in the with Faustino the dog and watched DVR'd Bones episodes. D left for work. I was annoyed with myself for still not wanting to do anything, but still didn't want to do anything. I took a shower. I put my phone on silent. The world was loud. I thought about writing and my hands preemptively ached. I sorted laundry and watched Blindspot. I wanted comfort food so I made picadillo with sopita. When D arrived home from work he saw that I'd only moved from the bed to the living room. He said hi and I just smiled.
I hadn't spoken since the morning.
When he got home from boxing, I was posting stuff online to sell. When he asked what was wrong, I said I just didn't feel like talking. In fact, I didn't even want to talk to him, which never happens.
I am naturally a chatter box. I can talk to almost anyone. I say almost because a girl has to draw a line somewhere.
Tuesday, I felt better, but small things irritated me. The way a friend answered a text. The list of things I needed to get done, which was really not very big. I went to boxing thinking the exercise would help. It usually does, but it only helped a little. At lunch, I met another friend for wings, beer, and lesson planning. I went to Target and bought summer shorts and funny tees. My mood was lightening. When I got home, D looked at me his eyes weary. They said, "Is she still weird?" I apologized for not wanting to talk. In all my mood swing weirdness through the years that has never happened. I text my bestie from another mama and told her I'd been a grouch since she'd left back to Austin. She was having a bad day too. I felt better. Why do two grouches make a peas and carrots combo better?
Today, I am myself. On the way to a doctor's appointment, I sang my heart out in the car to the 90's grunge station on Sirius radio. I felt light. The lightest I'd felt in days.
This is what it is like to be creative. At least for me. I binged all the juice out of my brain and then I crashed. It is almost a manic episode, but it only happens when I write. This happened to me before, when I was writing about Ita for Por Un Amor, but that time I thought it was because I was writing about my Ita. My dead Ita. Various versions of this have been said, "If you want to live forever, marry a writer." It's true.
Even when I'm writing fiction the besties are there in various forms. D is there. I am there. I work so hard to make everything real, that I pour myself on the page. I thought writing YA romance would be easier. The last three days have proven that's not true.
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