I’ve had a nap today, so I don’t feel like myself.
Sleep is wonderful. After a good night’s sleep and a few dreams, I’m ready to write all day.
After a shitty night’s sleep (or worse, a nap) I’m a fruitless automaton. I could edit to my heart’s content, if “editing” meant line-by-line grammar and absolutely no creativity.
Naps are horrible. They sap my strength. I’m never myself when I wake from a nap, and I don’t like the other me who returns. She’s boring. She’s lazy. She has no creative thought. When I can’t stay awake on the weekend, I accuse her of theft. “Stop stealing my precious writing minutes, you bitch.”
Sometimes, I can find myself again in a movie, or music, or a good book. Sometimes, I only need to sleep more. Sometimes, I’m a zombie the rest of the day, with no chance of recovery.
Today, I’m going to try more black currant tea and a few pages’ journalling to classical music, to see if I can replace this chick with the usual voices in my head: my characters’ voices.