I'm utterly exhausted at the moment, so bone-tired that my eyes are trying to close even as I type this. I'm flogging myself half to death in order to complete a certain number of words on my novel before heading off to the Torbay Poetry Festival on Friday. It's odd, isn't it, how some days the words just flow, just cascade out of you, and other days you can barely look at the keyboard without wanting to retch. At the weekend, usually my most productive time, I couldn't manage more than 300 words over both days together. Yet I wrote over 2000 words yesterday, and nearly 3000 today. For no apparent reason.
I could put it down to astrological influence, of course, which is always a possibility, there being more things in heaven and earth etc., but it could also be a side-effect of having found a rhythm with this novel, like a runner 'hitting their stride'. I'm concerned, of course, that when I get back after this next weekend, my mind will be on poetry again and not prose. Which could mean disaster for this book, or it could simply inject a little grace into my prose and not affect my momentum at all. Only time will tell. Bedtime, that is. Goodnight.