When You're Really, Really Into It

Today's alternate post title: Why Every Writer Should Be Granted a (Well-Paid) Housekeeper by the Federal Government

So for the past week or so, I've been writing. This should surprise no once, since I am a writer. But in this case when I say "I've been writing", I mean I haven't been doing anything else.

Really. Haven't slept. Haven't showered (okay, I did a few times, but they were really cursory showers). Wore the same clothes for three days. Haven't eaten dinner - I stop around dinner time and rush around procuring food for the guys (my husband and son), then pour myself a cup of milk, eat a few bites of cereal out of the box and call it dinner before retiring with more coffee to write.

We have no groceries. No clean laundry. The wash basin is overflowing with dishes. The cats deluge me every time I have to pee, because no one's been petting them.

I think I frightened my brother, who lives next door and visits frequently. He tried to ask me something yesterday, and I responded with "grrrARGH tap tap tap". I haven't seen him again since.

Last night I took a break to play a few rounds of Rock Band with my son. I kept trying to fit the lyrics of the songs into the chapter I was working out in my head, or deciding whether the spiky-haired bass playing guy in the game would make a good character. I don't remember what songs we were playing.

I'm exhausted. My bones ache. I've just done something terrible to my main characters, and I want to cry for them and hate myself for being such a horrible person. But I'm writing, and I can't stop.

Oh, boy, am I ever writing.