The night is young

Actually, the morning is almost young, but I still wanted to get quite a bit more written tonight.

The problem is, I keep falling asleep at the keys. That's what I get for dealing with the girls' activities until 2pm and then spending until 7pm helping them reorganize and clean their rooms. My choice, so I can't complain. And on the surface, as far as I can tell, it was not because I had any desire not to write.

Maybe it's that I don't fully believe I can do this, at some level. So the choice I have to make in that case is whether to feel like I deserve to succeed, or give in to the old voices inside saying that if I succeed, someone else will end up paying for it and I'll get a heaping helping of Guilt instead of true Satisfaction. (To explain the history behind *that* pattern would take more time and energy than I have tonight, but maybe I'll spell it out it some day.)

Back to work, though. I'd like to be at 30,000 by Monday. I'm only at 24530. If I can get to 26000 tonight, that would be very good.

You've heard of ghost writing? Well, this is like ghost writing, except that it's sleep writing. In the middle of a perfectly normal narrative sentence, I find I'm writing about something bizarre out of my personal life and/or things that make no sense. You know, sentences like, "The next day, she bought a bicycle. It was an older the laundry is probably dry and I should would work in town to run errands like take out the trash farmer's market bread for R's homework tomorrow in math down the street." That's not an actual set of sentences from the doc, but it might as well have been! And I don't possess the talent that Joyce had to get away with truly bizarre stuff, you know?

"Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pahrce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish." -Finnegans Wake, (4.15-17, quote found here.) Scary, huh?