Recently on Facebook, I wrote this:
I was on a deadline.
My bangs were too long and driving me crazy.
I cut them myself.
Remind me not to do that again.
These are the other things I’ve done while on a story deadline. It is not a complete list:
1. Chugged chocolate chip cookies as if God would take them away tomorrow FOREVER.
2. Stayed in pajamas ’til 3:00 in the afternoon. On the bottom half I wore my reindeer pajamas, top half black and pink flowers. I looked scrumptious.
3. Talked out loud to myself. Okay. I do that all the time, especially when I’m running. Don’t interrupt me if we meet on a run. I’m in a deep and bizarre conversation with myself.
4. Left my hair unwashed for three days. That’s gross.
5. Fought with my twitching face. Left side only. I thought I might be having a stroke as I’d been sleepless. I decided I would address the stroke as soon as I finished my edits that night.
6. Fuzzed my eyes all up from too much computer time and thought I was going blind.
7) Talked to my bird.
Meowed at my cat.
9) Indulged a very slight problem with hypochondria and thought I had:
a) A tumor in my stomach. (Had to be there because I was getting so fat).
b) Paralysis coming on like a speeding train. (There was not another explanation, of course. My right leg was trembling, therefore, I would soon be paralyzed and unable to walk to the pantry to get the aforementioned chocolate chip cookies that God was taking away. I later realized my leg had gone to sleep).
c) A deadly cough (Which signals any number of dread diseases, of which I had to look up and study on the internet for hours to make sure I didn’t have one of them. These diseases could be found here or in Africa, a few in Thailand, a couple in India, and all diseases had to be studied and fretted about).
d) A breaking brain (Thoughts were scrambled, non-sensical, ridiculous. Perhaps it was a mental breakdown? If I have a mental breakdown who will remember to get the bird fresh water? Who will meow at my cat?)
10) Lived off five hours of sleep for several nights in a row making me edgy and bratty to be around.
When I’m not writing, or on a deadline, I play. Sort of. I finish a book, send it off, sleep, and I tell myself that I’m going to take a couple weeks off and go to lunch with my friends, be a nature freak, head to the beach by myself, read all day, journal for fun, etc.
In about four days, I’m bored.
Bored, bored, bored.
I have no idea what to do with myself. I’ve worked since I was a teenager. I usually work until 2 in the morning. What am I supposed to do until 2 in the morning? There are only so many Dr. Phil’s I can watch and The Bachelor is over. (What a wimpy Bachelor. Can we get a real man next time?)
Innocent Husband does not appreciate it when I wake him up to chat about my current problems, a weird dress with asymmetrical patterns I saw on TV, my analysis of the presidential election, or hormonal swings.
I sent a book off on Saturday. I’m already plotting the next one.
But first I’m going to get my bangs fixed. This ragged, razor cut across the front and the weird wisps of hair on the side make me look like a middle aged, delusional robot whose springs have popped right out of her head.