Life, Responsibility, and Stinky Pits

October has been difficult for me. If I’m not careful, Larry will be the one telling me to get off my butt.

Yes, we knew that the going would be getting rougher. Yes, we planned to write like crazy people and forge a few chapters ahead. Yes, we agreed to produce, produce, produce.

Has that happened? Heck, no. Why not?

Life.

My lack of production isn’t because I’ve been doing anything constructive or fun instead. My house looks like somebody hosted a Super Bowl party then abandoned the place. My yard and gardens have run totally amok and are in appropriate disarray for Halloween. Even my grooming has suffered. I plug in the flatiron and ask myself, “Does my hair really look that bad?” and unplug it.  “Concealer? I know it’s in my bag somewhere…” Screw it. “Do these greens match?” I put them on anyway. And don’t even ask me how many times I’ve forgotten to apply deodorant.

Truth is, I’ve felt like CRAP for about two weeks and have no idea why. I can barely drag myself out of bed to go to work—the bags under my eyes are enormous. All I want to do is sleep—I fantasize about sleeping, nap when I can, and plan my day around bedtime.  Even now I’m thinking about smooth, cool, freshly laundered sheets.

And when I do try to push through and write anyway, it’s garbage.

Yeah, okay, so I pushed a little yesterday, because I knew that I needed to e-mail a final chapter revision to Larry for his approval before I could send it to the critique group. Knowing that I’m the one holding up progress has been my ONLY motivation.

True, I’ve had a couple of bursts of creativity and produced three new scenes, but that’s not enough to get us ahead. We’re still just maintaining.

So what’s the answer? Quit working, and live in my mom’s basement like a parasite? My  husband probably wouldn’t care for that. Quit working and leech off my husband? Hmmm. That sounds compelling…        

Life. Family. Responsibility.

I don’t know what the answer is. I suppose that I’ll push when I have to and sleep when I can. Maybe I can dream the next scene, perfectly executed in my subconscious—

—but then I’d actually have to get out of bed and write it.