Recently someone asked me if I was “still writing” — a phrase that was so loaded with various assumptions that I didn’t quite know what to say . . . which is really quite something, if you know anything about me and Mercury.
As I am not used to being silent without shock or force playing a role, I assured them that I was, in fact, still putting pen to paper.
Which was a bit of a lie — or, at least, an inaccuracy — as the past week or so has been a difficult one. Lots of putting one or two words together and then derailing due to some sort of interruption or, more typically, the onset of fatigue and sweet, inevitable sleep.
But it was a wonderful weekend with the kids . . . but also one that didn’t have a lot of writing to show for it at the end. Although I did manage to make some really good dinners (recipes to follow) and lend a hand over here fixing a few problems, and even take a nap on Sunday afternoon when I should have been reading a copy of The Complete Stories of Edgar Allen Poe instead of having a bad dream about doing my job at another company for a confirmed jackass.
But I did get caught up a bit tonight, once the household was more or less squared away. I can’t do much when I’m tired, and quality is always a question as to the return on the investment of my time . . . but I did do five pages or so, working my way through an unexpected diversion in The Elephant House.
And, now, the law of diminishing returns dictates that I go to sleep. Because I am tired. And because it is all too easy for me to stay away to the point when you (or I) start to wonder whether it is worth going to sleep at all.
(Nope. No point to this one. Just rambling.)