You know you've hit rock bottom when you give yourself a cold headache by rushing through your pumpkin pie blizzard because you have an urgent napping appointment.
With nine days until Surrey, deadlines are skyscrapers in the landscape of my mind. It feels as though I'm leaving little pieces of myself scattered in my wake, and many of those who know me wonder if I'm crazy. Or even still alive at all, since my presence has become as rare as the Arctic cockatoo.
What is really happening is that the sacrifices at the altar of the Quest for the Next Great American Novel are cutting especially deep, and blood is flowing forth from the altar stone into the rest of my life.
Proper nutrition is one of the first things to go. After finding that I could barely fasten my fat pants, I went ahead and had raspberry Zingers for dinner - right between the editing meeting for the campus newspaper and my writing course with a local news editor.
Perhaps the fact that two - yes, two - black cats ran across the road in front of me today - the 13th, no less - should have alerted me that this would be the night the aforementioned editor would turn to me and say, "What did you think of that story, Candra?" I . . . uh, didn't actually read that particular story. Knowing I read the assigned material every other week of class didn't help. Every good and valid excuse I had would sound false, including, "I couldn't read about writing this week because I was, well . . . writing." Pride. There's another chunk left on the altar.
Normal sleeping hours were thwacked off long ago. My sleep patterns now represent the eating habits of a bulimic . . . binge and purge. Nap, tired, nap, tired, sleeeeeeeep. Repeat.
I think it goes without saying that the gym is out of the question, and that - all things considered - the effects of all this cumulative self-punishment on one's physique are predictable. It's my personal theory that this is why so many authors' dust jacket photos are headshots. Creating brilliance wreaks havoc on the body.
It's a race against time to produce a darn fine novel that everyone will want to read . . . before ninety percent of my arteries become totally clogged and I end up living so deeply in my mind that I can never find my way out again.
My muse is a cruel mistress that demands more and more of my flesh in payment for an uncertain cargo to carry into pitch sessions. In her defense, at least she's not yet rationing caffeine. That would be akin to making bricks without straw.
