Oh, Magic Spreadsheet. My weekend has imploded; a stomach virus that brought my daughter down yesterday evening has nailed me to the wall.
Well, not the wall. More like a steady path between the table in the kitchen area and the bathroom in the hotel room. We’d planned for a weekend with the kids in Orlando, packed everything up… and after a really crummy dinner, here I am with a very unhappy lower intestinal tract and the knowledge that I have not done my words for the day. So, what I do?
Sit up and start typing. Oh, Magic Spreadsheet, I’m your bitch. I could have sat up and started more edits on Hollow, but I really don’t want to vomit on the pages I printed with all of Sue’s comments. I don’t think I have the patience to work on the edits for Broken; I love what Zen and I have accomplished in the past several months, but right now, I’m impressed that I can type coherently.
My husband asked what I was doing, then read the first sentence over my shoulder. “You’re writing to the Magic Spreadsheet?” he asks with an understanding chuckle. And I tell him yes, I hadn’t gotten in my words today with either fresh words or edits, and so I had to write something. My quota is now up to 550, and I can’t break the streak. I might be on my knees, praying to the porcelain gods in some teary liturgy reserved for four AM after the keggers that I never attended, but I will not break the streak.
Is this how edgy writers write? The ones who give themselves the liberty to swear in social media, to declare a loud and free ‘fuck you six ways to Sunday with a festooned cerulean…’ thing?
I dunno, the slightly scared and proper side of me is still curled up on the floor of the hotel room, thankful for the renovated wood slat floors and icy air conditioning, but even she is telling the pissed-off sicko let loose by this inopportune virus that writing ‘barbed tentacle’ is probably not a wise choice. She’s the one that keeps backspacing over the more colorful language and reminding the quickly tiring rebel that this is not how the greats of literature found their muses.
Like you need a muse. You write enough, this is just one night, one night where you could forgive yourself and cut yourself a little slack. People will understand if you miss a day because you’re at war with your gut for twelve hours.
But of course, the other voice rears up, righteous indignation that screams that others have maintained their word count through illness and that to curl up and whimper is to admit defeat and Goonies never say die and it’s all the way to the aardvark and...
And wow, it’s probably a good thing you rarely drink. You’d be a frightening writing drunk, spewing vitriol all over the page until something finally made sense and you claimed inspiration.
Besides, the calories aren’t worth it, and even the thought of drinking anything at the moment is nauseating.
So, to sleep. Perchance to dream, although I’ll take a good solid six without my stomach deciding to rebel. I’ll check my word count when I make this post, but I’ll guess that I’ve made the 550 with room to spare.
All hail the Magic Spreadsheet. Pass the ginger ale.