Time, time, why have you forsaken me?

I know I’ll be one of those people who on my death-bed wails that I didn’t have time to do everything.  Where does one draw the line and say “no, this is what I want to do”?

This week saw me return to work on a phased return plan after 18 months of illness.  It’s good to be back and not sat here wondering what was to become of me.  At the same time, I’m exhausted and getting very little writing done.  Did some this morning before I set out, but it’s hard to settle to it when you know you have to be somewhere else imminently.  Just getting ready to leave the house is so exhausting that by the time I get to the office, I can barely sit up straight.  Plenty of mental energy, but physically am goosed.

Perhaps it was foolish to set a deadline for being ready to enter the beta reading phase on Inkredible.  Time is fleeting and if I’m not careful madness will indeed take its toll.  Writing is my art, my passion, my soul and it’s impossible to imagine letting go of it even a little.  The simple fact is, if I don’t sacrifice a vast proportion of it, I risk losing everything.  I can’t stay awake until all hours doing edits or writing new stories and chapters.  I have to be up early enough to perform that physical feat of getting ready and getting out.  When I get back to the 9 to 5, five days a week, that means being up by 5.30 and writing until 2 or 3am is just not going to happen without serious consequences.  The blood might begin to spill off the page and into life.

So what do I do?  Do I forget about all of the other things I need to do at home?  Some things can slide a bit more, other things absolutely cannot.  Do I find some way of never needing to sleep?  I wish!  Do I set aside an hour or two every night for writing and hope it doesn’t result in disjointed work?  Or do I only write at weekends after catching up on everything else?  I’ve been spoiled I suppose by having nearly every day to myself for so long.  What I can’t do is give up.  To give up writing would kill me a little more each day.  Perhaps I could train the cat to do some of the household tasks; vacuum up her own hair for example.  Perhaps I could hire someone to come in and do the cleaning.  Perhaps I could get myself cloned and send the copy out to work.  Right now, I could cry I’m so tired and I hate to turn out sloppy work which I no doubt will when I’m done here.  Maybe I already have in the above!  But ultimately, I’ll be writing and it will calm my anxious spirit.  Maybe I’ll kill someone and even if I do it badly I can edit it next time.  End of July can turn into end of September, end of October, end of the year as long an ending comes about.

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About julietmchugh

Fiction writer from the North East of England with a taste for the gruesome and macabre.

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