I just took a nap. I never take naps. I feel too guilty. I should be working or at least look like I’m working. But today I sat, staring at my page and not coming up with anything to write, my eyes sinking further into my sockets until they had to grow hands to cling to the edges to avoid disappearing completely.
The problem with writing is that it is so close to sleeping. You have to relax, sit still, wind down and try to merge with your subconscious in a dream like state.
It is one of the reasons I try to wake early in the morning to write. My mind is rested and not yet overwhelmed with the chaos of a regular day.
But sometimes life gets in the way. Late nights, early school runs, chores, errands, emails, phone calls, this and that until I settle in my chair to write. And my brain slides into a free fall.
I try propping it up with coffee, each cup blacker and thicker than the next. But today it didn’t do the trick. I just sat there my eyes dripping with the need for sleep.
And so, feeling as guilty as if I was slipping into a lover’s tryst, I tiptoed up to my bedroom, pulled back the cover of the bed I had just made this morning, and lay down my head. It felt as heavy as a bowling ball. It protested—too much to do—but I put a finger to its lips and the next thing I knew I woke up 30 minutes later, the weight lifted, the weepiness gone.
And no I’m not exactly doing the conga right now but I am back at my desk and I just might make my word count…
photo by jeffhillphoto.com (flickr)