Last week was a bust. I came down with the plague and was mostly incapacitated. This was nothing like my productive 24-hour bug of January. This time, I was laid out on the couch, pulling boulders uphill every time I talked, breathed, sat up. And I couldn’t write. The idea of moving my fingers across a keyboard made me want to cry.
After a day of doing little more than breathing, I had a bit of an anxiety attack about how behind I was getting on those second-round novel revisions. So, hopped up on the butt end of an Advil Cold & Sinus lie, I decided I was well enough to get back to work.
Three hours and two pages later–flop-sweating and reeking of Tiger Balm and death–I realized how wrong I was. I went to the doctor and then made an appearance at work for three hours because I couldn’t handle the idea of getting behind on office projects as well. THEN I decided it was time I stopped pushing myself. I melted into the couch and went off the grid, courtesy of a 30 Rock marathon.
I’m worlds better today, but freaking out a little. I have some major edits coming up, and I could’ve used that week. I still think I’ll be able to proofread the whole manuscript one last time before the submissions deadline for the novel editing workshop I’m hoping to get into (barring unforeseen, cataclysmic events).
Also, the flu didn’t completely rob me of joy. My week ended with a new MacBook Pro, and Disneyland with the boyfriend and his mom. Good times were had.
P.S. Friday: THE LIST–my top ten first-draft writing hurdles and how I got over them. Until next time!