I actually could have called this "hard and kind of boring stuff" today.
I'm very tired today. Very. I was so worn out after last night's training session that I decided I needed to take a day off. I think I've been pushing myself. I told this to my trainer and she said, "A lot of the important progress happens when you're resting." This sounded good to me, but later I wished I'd asked her what this meant exactly. I don't see her again until Sunday. Must remember to have her clarify.
I went to bed at nine last night.
Everyone on my flist is talking about shows I don't watch. I feel completely out of step. I'm not interested in watching these shows, either, but I'm having that "I want to be fannish with everyone again" feeling that crops up when you're not living la vida loca of an active fan.
This probably isn't thrilling news for most of you, but I find time management much easier when I'm not even making the slightest effort to write--when I don't have that stressed, anxious feeling of constant failure for every minute of free time that I don't spend getting words down. I read a Benjamin Justice mystery recently, a later entry in the series, where he'd gone on Prozac and his writing had dried up. He felt stable, moodwise, but by the end of the book he decided to go off the medication to get his highs and lows and creative energies back. I don't have any conclusive thoughts on that at the moment.
When I say that time management is easier, a lot of what I'm saying is that it's much more satisfying to spend solid time working out, because I'm not irritably and impatiently thinking, "This is cutting into my precious free time! I want to be home, trying to write!" Never mind that I often didn't write anyway, but futzed around and watched TV, and when I did write, it could be unfulfilling.
I still have donation stories to write. This gnaws at a corner of my mind, I assure you.
I haven't done my taxes yet.
I've been kind of down the past few days. But not drinking. There's a part of me that thinks, "That's not fair. I'm not drinking but I feel like crap. I should feel better than this." Yeah. Because not drinking can solve world hunger and cure cancer, and make flowers bloom from my kitchen sink.
I'm rereading Eight Million Ways to Die, which is a significant book for me. It's pretty hardboiled noir in its way, but richer and more faceted than the title makes it sound. And it's a critical turning-point of a novel in the Scudder series. I don't know how much I'd spoil this for anyone, but early in the series he's a classic hard-drinking P.I., and over the course of time he starts the decline toward hitting bottom, and he reaches it in this book and finally turns things around, and for the rest of the series, he's sober and in AA.
I have a lot of uncertainty about the idea of "hitting bottom." This issue is addressed in a chapter of Drinking: A Love Story, which I still want to quote a lot from. The author says that it can often be just an internal thing, a turning point, and not necessarily a big dramatic event of hitting someone with your car or losing your job, etc. I wonder if I hit bottom last spring. If so, have I recognized that sufficiently? Do you have to see the shadow of your death to really sober up? Metaphorically and/or literally.
I need to think about my health more. I need to drink more water. One of my own favorite lines--that I've written--is from "A Long Time Looking":
It was a vague concern, like not eating enough greens, but now and then a more pressing urgency, a gripping and cumulative fear: If I don't start eating more greens soon, I will die.That's my thought for the day.