It's 11:00pm and rain's tapping at the skylight above me. I laid out a bed for myself on the floor downstairs and I hope to be crawling inside of it soon here.
The words came slower than a glacier today. I wrote half a page of questionable text in five hours. Some days, the gears just don't turn as smoothly as others.
I did run for about half an hour today, though, and I'm pleased to be a bit sore. It's always amusing to lace up sneakers while some frantic part of my brain floods me with excuses and suggestions for other things that I could be doing. Yes, lazy brain of mine, I'd love to eat cookies or read The Grapes of Wrath or play guitar or write a song. Let's do all of those things! ...after I run.
All this exercise is partially for strength, partially for discipline, and partially a deliberate attempt to tire myself out. I have still not been sleeping well but I think I'm finally exhausted enough to start getting better. Yesterday after my final set of push-ups, I laid down face-first as I always do--to wait until my arms and chest regain a little strength--but this time I stayed down for about half an hour instead of half a minute. Zzz... Zzz... Zzz... Oops.
I should really wander downstairs and try to recreate that happy accident. I’m taking The Grapes of Wrath with me. I have to lure myself into bed, using books as bait: the eight-year-old in me never stopped hating bedtime. He is alive and kicking tonight, as he is every night.
I hope you've had a good weekend. Goodnight.
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