Yesterday is what I used to call a mental health day. Which is to say, I needed to get away from what I was doing, and do something else.
The sleeping issues have been piling up of late, and Monday and Tuesday nights were particularly horrid. Yesterday morning I finally realized that I couldn’t work in a semi-zombie condition, so I called off from work and went back to bed.
Then I slept until about 9 AM.
When I finally crawled out of bed I realized I was in a position where I didn’t have to do anything. Most of the time I have things planed out; I know, when I get up, what I need to do for the day. Yesterday–no, there was no plan. I could do anything I wanted. Anything that struck my fancy was fair game.
It was a wonderful feeling, knowing I didn’t have anything to do. So I did a few things, ran around, did some shopping–all things that I didn’t have to do, but did anyway.
Oh, and I did my blog post for the day.
I’ve been slacking from writing for the last few weeks. Since finishing Diners at the Memory’s End, I haven’t started on anything new. I’ve had ideas, yes, and I’ve put those ideas in a file so I don’t forget them, but beyond the chapter a week I’m doing on another blog for my story Replacements, I’ve not sat down and started anything that’s required my attention every day of the week. Yes, I’m doing a final edit on Echoes, but there isn’t a work in progress in progress.
The summer burned me out–there’s no doubting that. A lot of things hit at the same time, and I wasn’t doing a very good job dealing with anything. A month ago I decided that I need to do things for me, that I need to stop worrying about what I’m doing for others, and think about what I’m doing for me.
I need to see to it that I’m good, because if I’m not good for myself, then I’m no good to anyone else.
I’m still writing every day. Even if I don’t have a work in progress, I have the blog. If nothing else, I get my five hundred words a day in here, and post it around the Internet. Writing every day is one discipline I keep to, because the moment you give up writing, you start killing your dream. My dreams are important, and I want them to become more than dreams. So I continue with the writing, even if it’s here.
Before you know it, however, there’ll be a work in progress, because the Muse won’t allow me to remain idle for long. She keeps me going, but she also knows that if I’m going to write, I’ve got to be well. I’ve got to be good to myself.
Can’t stay in ruts; can’t keep beating myself up; can’t refuse to do good things for my own well being.
Keep it real, and real will keeping make nice for you.