I pulled four fourteen hour days and it just killed my brain. I’m trying to get back into the motion of writing three thousand words a day and it’s just not working because my head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton.
It’s not necessarily a bad feeling. Let’s face it, if I wasn’t trying to keep going, I’d probably be inside a fluffy little cloud. Just relaxing and comfortable about the whole thing.
So, unfortunately, I’m kind of pooched.
Instead of writing three thousand words, I’m plotting Death Mask and over Easter will be making covers and graphics.
That way I’m just doing arts and crafts, basically, but I’m still getting work done.
Next week I leave for Cuba. Gone for nine or so days and I’ve got the proof of At Death’s Door and the second edit of Cheating Death to do. Both of these is basically just reading the books until something pisses me off, then making notes for said things.
I am still debating taking my tablet. If I really want to write, I can turn my phone on, I’m not restricted just because I leave the tablet at home.
Though, taking a USB drive and nothing to plug it into may be suspicious and may keep me from getting on the flight. Maybe I should take it. There could be nights I can’t sleep or something, and write instead.
That kind of thing, you know?
Trying to plan this all, I feel like I’m forgetting something. I have ID, medication, clothing, and even someone to watch the cats. I’ve told the landlord so he doesn’t think I’ve abandoned the apartment.
So what in the hell am I forgetting?
It’ll come to me when I get to the airport…