Writing’s Adrenalin

Lethargy rolls a slow fog over my mind . Do I hafta write today, a plaintive voice demands. I don’t wanna. 

Last night’s sleep won’t go into the book of the best. Mimosas with friends this morning contributes something to the singular sense that I don’t want to write, and put it off, playing games, reading a book, reading blogs. Timing is off, energy off.

Oh, push, damn it, push. Push. Just think of a word that you want to write, the beginning of a chapter, a scene, a sentence. With explosive suddenness, words pour into me from three scenes, two books. Hurry, hurry, my laggard mind is suddenly urging. Write like crazy and get it down now. Okay, okay, okay, let’s get these things down. Which to start with…? Pick one.

One is picked, pursued. Words are collected, ordered, re-arranged, deleted, added, ordered again. More scene arrives. Moments expand, expand, expand.

Writing’s adrenalin kicks in. I can’t write fast enough, head down, fingers dancing with ballerina lightness, going until I’m drained. The quad shot mocha remains, waiting to be drunk, now iced with a fine skim from being cold.

I drink, suddenly weary again, but satisfied. Started with nothing. Found a word and managed twenty-eight hundred. Feels good but I feel tired.

I’d really like