Sometimes It’s Hard

My head gets full of ideas and dialogue and beautiful cover images – usually as soon as I put my head on the pillow –  and then I don’t sleep for an entire weekend.

I spend the day like the living dead, not really seeing or comprehending much, not able to write and get all the shit in my brain out so I can sleep – just drifting from room to room, or tab to tab – only roused from my not-actually-awake haze when the cat meows directly in my face that he needs to be fed.

And all that only makes me feel like a fraud. Like a girl just playing at this writing thing because who can’t keep normal hours? Who can’t control their muse well enough to go the fuck to sleep? Who gets so excited about books they haven’t even plotted, books that are 3 books in the future? Who does that? And why can’t you JUST BE NORMAL?!

So I beat myself up about it. I intentionally make myself feel bad for it, which when you think about it is absolutely ridiculous and I’m not doing it anymore. No more. I’m weird. I write weird shit and sometimes I keep weird hours. And I won’t make myself feel guilty about it anymore.