Today’s triumph is that I’m out of bed, dressed, and sitting at the keyboard. I know, I know, not a triumph in most people’s book. Except, today it is.
I tossed and turned with nightmares all last night. One vivid dream in particular involved a family member, two bathtubs full of evil octopi, a couple of leeches, and a strong feeling of deeper meaning that kept disappearing in the urgent need to clean up the mess the octopi left. No, I have no idea where they went. But Life As We Know It depended on the timely cleaning of the mess. (Think a mousy Jack Baeur with octopi and a mop).
So, I shivered in bed in the dark this morning with an entirely-fictitious stuffed animal that I will deny owning, and made the foolish decision to sleep in a little longer rather than go running. Then I had to spend the morning dealing with semi-competent people, feeling cranky, and trying not to yell at anyone. I wished for the fictitious stuffed animal intensely. Could I sneak him into my office, perhaps? Would anyone find out?
But, as I promised myself that I would be the Post Office of writers – you know, rain, snow, sleet, whatever, still delivering – I dragged my tired cranky self upstairs, sat myself down, and gave myself a lecture. You will write, I told myself, whether or not you want to. Because I said so.
It was a triumph, even if it was a cranky one. Because, by all that’s holy, the octopi won’t win.
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