I haven’t had much time for writing lately and it started to show. I can feel it in everything else I do. There’s an extra level of crankiness, like when my blood sugar is low or when politicians talk. I know I have to take time for writing, but sometimes life is extra full of other stuff and you have to keep postponing the narrative. That’s when you risk it taking things into its own metaphorical hands.
In my day job, I teach at a small college. My subject is software development and I have really great students. Because of that, I put a lot of effort into preparing materials and giving good feedback when I grade. Unfortunately, this takes a lot of time. Especially in a term like this one where I have one new course and one course that has new curriculum.
Saturday night, I sat grading. I knew I needed to get it done. My students depended on me to give them prompt feedback so they can adapt and learn. The grading kept getting harder, though. About nine o’clock, I could grade no more. My muse had gotten me.
I opened up the novel I am supposed to be rewriting and started in. I figured a little prose would help take the edge off. It probably would have too.
At five in the morning, my aching fingers and constant typos told me it was time for bed.
That’s right; my writing madness had driven me through the night.
Obviously, this is a sign that I need to make more time for my writing. It would be that work-life balance that people go on about. Since I was able to do go through about half the planned changes to the novel in just one night, it probably wouldn’t be too long before it was ready for the resubmission circuit again.
The alternative is that, one day in the not too distant future, they will find me in the fetal position, staring into the distance. The only sign of mental activity shown would be the furious flutter of finger movements as the remains of my subconscious typed out glory on an imaginary keyboard. As fun as that sounds, it may not be my best option.