Last week was a tough week.
I was on the tail end of a massive deadline for my book proposal and the process took a lot out of me. After writing and writing for too many days straight, my body, mind and soul started to pay for it.
I learned the hard way that writing for hours on end at a desk that isn’t a proper desk (mine is a kitchen table from IKEA) wreaks havoc on your back, neck and wrists.
Truth be told, I’m not used to being so dedicated to a task for such a long period of time. My normal routine at work is to pop in and out of projects with a musical rhythm that helps me stay informed while also staying out of people’s hair.
By the end of Monday, I was so exhausted that I got in my bed at 8:15pm with pajamas on, lights out and curtains closed. I even bypassed opening a bottle of wine. Now, that’s when I know something’s wrong.
When my husband called at 8:45pm to say he was on his way home from work, I was already dead asleep. He didn’t seem surprised. However, he did want to know what our children were doing while their mother was in a coma. I proudly reported that they’d been watching their iPads for hours in their bedrooms and then I hung up.
Tuesday started out the same way.
I woke up at 5am and tiptoed downstairs in the dark and forced what felt like broken wrists to type the final edits to my book proposal…for seven hours straight.
After I hit send on the proposal and it was in my literary agent’s hands, I thought I’d feel a sense of relief, a sense of accomplishment, a sense of pride.
I felt none of those things. I felt exhausted. I felt depleted. Continue Reading