As of about Wednesday this week I’ve been quietly curled in a fetal position between classes, returning home to lie in bed like a limp vegetable and quietly bemoan the lack of energy to do any uni work at all, let alone continue Wrimo-ing.
I know I seemed a lot more positive in my previous post, but that’s because I thought I was getting better. Something’s messing with me again now and I need sleep (again!) which means the word count is, unfortunately, suffering.
I had a blast of inspiration night before last, at least, and filled in a huge chunk of outline that I’ve been struggling with ever since the start.
I think what frustrates me now is knowing, with my lagging pace and my lack of time due to school and my slow descent into perpetual bed occupation, that there is no leeway and no time left to consider the finer points of character and theme, of the little details in words and descriptions that I can sometimes churn out at the oddest of hours. Simply, the quality is floundering in tandem with the quantity.
What stronger statement of commitment exists in those oft-quotes vows than “in sickness and in health?” As all artists, we are married to our creations. They are as much ourselves as we are. It’s a strange kind of symbiosis, less yin and yang balancing each other out, than two sides of a coin falling to the ground or being tossed into the air at the same time. As I am embroiled in this state of unwellness, my work embarks on the same path down with me, and does not depart, and stagnates just the same. I suppose if I were to pursue the route of trying to push it to health before me, I am divorcing it from my own self.
I literally have no idea what I’m saying. I think I might have a fever.
Let’s hope the word count catches up by tonight. Peace out.