Self pity and run-on sentence alert.

Last night I went to bed, Han got me up and I was angry and not very graceful, then I couldn't go to sleep so I got up and tried to squeeze out some words and it was not easy, plus I'm behind in my count for National Novel Writing Month, then I went to bed again and I felt numb and that worries me, and then Han got me up again at four because he had to go to the bathroom so when my alarm went off I felt tired and still numb, and that concerns me because of the Fresh Air interview with Allie Brosh who got depressed and had no feelings and now I'm sitting on the sofa and trying to make up some of the slipping, sliding word count and I'm having a tough time and thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap and it's raining and white outside and I still don't have that many feelings except a general sogginess, whereas last week I felt alive and happy and excited even though I was behind on my word count then, too, and now I keep wondering what is it all for, why am I even doing this and the evil voice of doubt is chatting away in my mind's ear.

Comments

[cc]

@Scott:
From Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird -
"One writer I know tells me that he sits down every morning and says to himself nicely, 'It's not like you don't have a choice, because you do-- you can either type or kill yourself.'"

[Scott]

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost