Fugue State

It’s been a while since I’ve done this.

I was 21k into Sunset when it happened. There I was, all proud of my progress, thinking, “No problem! I can make my 9/15 deadline without breaking a sweat! AFter all, it’s the end of July!”

Cue hysterical laugh here:

It was time to write something for my Patreon, so I finished the wedding fic for Jeremy and Aiden and was proud. I had about 22K of Granby ficlets. I sent them to my publisher. “Hey–maybe we could sell these for $.99 –the readers will love it!”

“Sure–but could you add a Christmas story? Then we can make it A Granby Holiday Collection, what do you think?”

“Sounds great! I’ll have that done in a week, tops.”

So, I opened that doc on August 2nd, and finished up on the 23rd–and remember, there was a family trip in tere–and I wrote 55K.

Whow. I mean, it’s been a while since I rode the dragon like that? And I was exhausted. I’d been immersed in the story to the point where I dreamed about it–and this isn’t good for your REM sleep or your nerves or any of the things that ADHD and neurodivergent folk have to watch out for. I looked like my son who games long into the night–shadowed eyes, distracted gaze, and absolutely zero on the conversation. All my mental energy had been poured into this “ficlet” that now qualified as a novel.

And then I thought, “I’m going to just right a little ficlet for my Patreon–I’ve only been posting other stuff there, and they deserve some free fiction,” and I didn’t realize I was still in that “zone”. Nearly 13,000 words in three days and I was a wreck.

I’m still a wreck. My digestion is shot, my fasciitis is thinking about flaring up, my HAIR is in my EYES, and I haven’t been able to pull my head into the absolute present in about a month.


I forgot about this.

I used to do this all the time. Mate would have to tell me to step away from the fridge, he was going for takeout, because I couldn’t make a goddamned decision. Once, I crawled into bed with a fever and a bladder infection and pink eye and several strained body parts from hunching over my computer, and Mate made me promise–never again.

On the one hand, I’ve got one of those dizzy, “I’ve still got it!” buzzes in my chest, and on the other, I’d love to poop again, because yes, that happens when you’re devoting all your time, mental/physical energy to a thing that doesn’t move shit along literally as well as figuratively.

I’ve worked hard to structure my life so this doesn’t happen so much anymore.

It will take a couple days of normalcy to fix it. To sleep regularly. To not let my writing dominate my thinking so I can remember things like grocery shopping again. I mean, I know the comedown will COME, but in the meantime?

I need to remember to be careful with my noggin. It’s not an average place to be–as my husband reminds me frequently when I explain things like why I’m carrying an armload of unrelated items to my chair to sit down with when I’m supposed to be relaxing.

“Your brain terrifies me. If I thought about that much stuff at the same time it would pop and run out my nose.”

I’ll try to stick to my regularly schedule daydreaming from here on out, okay?

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