I tried to get up this morning before work to write.
When I was working on the first draft of my most recent freelance project, I was able to get up at 7, stow myself in the back corner of a local Starbucks, and type madly for about two hours before running down Varick Street for work. It was a miracle, really, being able to get up that early when a whole workday was ahead, and being creative first thing in the morning at that. (The expensive chocolate/coffee concoction helped.) Most of the book was written that way. But now that I am in the revision stage—about 75 pages more to go and due June 5—I reached a slack spot. I don't want to get up early. I don't want to be productive. I almost don't want to turn it in because that will mean the whole gig's over and I'm back to my real life of an unprofessional writer who has nobody breathing down her neck about a deadline. I like the neck-breathing (even if imagined), and most especially deadlines.
So, this morning:
Alarm goes off; it's on some Spanish language station with a haze of static. I crawl down the ladder of the loft. Stumble blind into the living room toward the shower—no—almost there—shower in sight—no, the couch has caught my attention, I'm swerving, shower forgotten, couch, ah, couch.
And I slept for the two hours I should have written. And when I woke it was from a dream involving Mormons with multiple wives and my mother was one of them but she had a secret extra husband, too. (Yes, now you know what TV I've been watching, and soon I'm turning off the HBO.)
The day slipped past me, again.
But I asked my boss for time off work in July to write. A writing retreat right here in New York City, July 3-11. I must not sleep through that week!