For the past month or so, I have found putting off writing easy. Too easy, maybe, but the reasons are myriad: work has been longer than usual. Weekends have been consumed by time with husband or special excursions with friends. Free time has gone to screening for the film festival. The real reason, though, is that I decided to stop pushing myself about it until things at work calmed down and screening season was done. I just…couldn’t make myself turn writing into a chore and another source of stress. I can do that when I don’t have any other stresses. But when the rest of my lfie if giving me grief, I need writing to be a fun thing, which means…not pushing it.
The other kink lately has been the news from my doctor that my TSH level went up again, so the thyroid replacement I was on was either too low a dose, after all, or not being properly absorbed. Since I often took it and proceeded directly to drink my black tea with cream, I expect the issue was one of absorption (since both caffeine and calcium inhibit absorption). Thus I now have this wrinkle added: I can’t have caffeine until I have been up for an hour.
Just…contemplate the horror of that for a writer whose “writing” alarm goes off at 4:30.
Yeah. I may have to look back into that other margin, the two hours before I go to bed each night. It’s not the same, trying to write when the echoes of everything that happened to my mental synapses that day are still reverberating in my mind, versus writing when the only sounds in my mind are the words and the fan circulating air in the room…but the heavy-lidded scratchy-throated shaky-handed margin might be out of the question for the time being.