I've been sick for a week and I have tons of work to do. I keep trying to sit here and type up all of my stories and the rest of the "novella" (if that's what we're calling it these days) but I have done nothing more than lie in bed, lie on the couch, take ibuprofen, Pamprin, asprin and apply various sports creams to my neck. (Asprin and Tiger Balm seem to be the only thing that's done some sort of miraculous ease.) My neck is stiff, I haven't felt "normal" or myself at all and every day I get up in the morning thinking I'm going to finally make some headway. Sadly, I've only scratched the surface on the list of stuff that needs to be pounded out on the computer. So I've emailed my professor, given him some of the work I've gotten done and am heading back to bed.

I'm guessing the stress of not working and the pain of not be able to work has become some vicious cycle. Does anyone else sit there and think they can logical reason with their mind that their body hasn't slumped into a pitiful slump for days on end? Too bad that I can't talk myself out of feeling bad so I can get all the words out and be done with the project for the time being. All of it is late and it makes the pain and the stress even worse; yet another vicious cycle.



I also wonder too, if I'm the only one who thinks there are only so many words that I am capable of conjuring and, thus, making my stories stagger in limitations. I feels as though I have a box of words that I can use and reuse so any difference in plot of theme is told the same. But I suppose that's the beauty of having a specific voice or a particular style or whatever it is that keeps us locked in our own personal limitations. Somehow having a "unique" voice isn't so dazzling when it can't extend beyond the corners and go to the places you want it to go.



Photo credit: deadeyebart



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