Yesterday, I sat down to write and, within an hour, was feeling weird. Tired, but in a way that's difficult to explain. Spooky had to go out and run errands. I managed to stay upright until she returned. At that point, I'd managed to write 610 words on "One Tree Hill (The World As Cataclysm)." I apologized, then passed out on the sofa. I slept about an hour an a half. In the afternoon. This is the sort of thing that never happens. I awoke feeling horribly dehydrated, and spent the evening drinking everything in sight. No other symptoms. I thought I'd never get to sleep after that epic "nap," but I went to bed at my usual hour, say 2:30 ayem, listened to the audiobook version of The Haunting of Hill House (no more of that dreadful adaptation of Neuromancer; I just can't endure it), and was asleep within minutes. I didn't awake until almost eleven ayem. So...no idea what happened yesterday. Spooky felt bad the day before, she says. Were we fighting off a bug? Was this very delayed exhaustion from Readercon (that seems unlikely)? Am I just tired? No fucking idea. Regardless, I'm hemorrhaging time, and have most of a novel to get written in August.
I dreamt, this morning, that I was living in London, which was also Atlanta, and there was a fantastic sort of water tornado (not a waterspout) that tore through the city. I recall, specifically, red-stone shingles being ripped from roofs, tossed by the thousands into the stormy sky.
Okay: Platypus. Words. Fear of failure. Ticking clock. Onwards...
Hoping for Heat,