Writing makes me sleepy. Very sleepy. Reading my recent efforts is even worse. A strange form of self-hypnosis.
Hopefully I won’t wake up clucking like a chicken.
Not that I have a lot of that sleepiness going on. Seems like most days I spend forever listening to era-appropriate music, looking at photos, gettin’ all emotional and stuff, and revving myself up to write. Then, just as I’m getting ready to dive in there, it’s time to go get the kids. Or it’s so close that I can’t let go because I know there isn’t time for a full immersion. I need to get over that, for sure.
Today I did a little writing (as in three paragraphs, not enough), and now I’m desperate for a nap. But, oops, lookie there. Time to get the kids.