My brain is fried. Like chicken, but not in a good way. I would think that a chicken doesn’t necessarily feel too happy after he’s been fried, considering he’s dead. No, I don’t feel dead, but awfully tired and when I’m overtired and exhausted (soulwise), it usually bodes bad for me. I get to want to curl up inside, be left alone, and just regroup. However, that’s a bit difficult when you have a 2 ½ year old (he’s a bit older than that, I just don’t feel like doing the math).
This weekend was loads of fun. I cleaned, did wash, cleaned out one of the cards, put some oil in the car, and changed the wiper blades (I couldn’t get the passenger side on so instead of getting frustrated and ripping the damn thing apart, I went in and asked my wife for some help. Thanks sugarpie!).
Creatively, I feel about as creative as well like a blank page. I don’t even feel like writing this, but I know that I’ll have less and less time to work in the next few days so I thought that I would at least take the opportunity to jot something down. You might ask: Why am I so tired? The trip back from our friend’s house was long last night. I got in bed by a little after 2 am. Thankfully our son slept through the night but at 7:21 a.m. I heard: “Mommy, where are you?” Yep, my own personal alarm clock. Now I don’t tend to sleep very late anymore on the weekends (before having a child I could sleep to about 7:30 a.m. maybe 8:00 a.m. if I got lucky the previous night). But now my son will wake up no matter the time. See, he went to sleep at our friend’s house about 8:30 p.m. and slept for a few hours until we woke him up and then drove the 76 miles home at 12:20 a.m. Ugh. I fell asleep at one point (my wife was driving) and I might have had about 10-15 minutes of sleep. I was in the car and it was snowing (wet, warm snow) and then raining hard and I woke up, thinking: “God, we’re still so far away from home. No matter how fast we go we’re still going to get home really late.” And then today came and I woke up and felt like shit. My neck was hurting (I must have slept on it badly) and I felt like my brain hadn’t quite turned on through most of the day.
Now I’m sitting here and am trying to write. Why? Because that’s what we writers are supposed to do. Just sit the hell down and write—even when you don’t want to. And I can tell you straight up: I sure as hell don’t feel like writing right now. At least not for you. But I am anyway. My son did go to bed okay (his big boy bed arrives tomorrow—I’m looking forward to seeing how he takes to sleeping in his new bed. No more crib! My little boy is growing up). And I get this wall of resistance to writing when I’m tired like this. I just don’t want to work, or read, or do much of anything. With how I felt today, I’m amazed at how much we did get done. But I do feel like today was just one blurry, gray day.
I’ve often said that there’s no need to drink a lot and feel sick. Just get not enough sleep and you’ll have a hang over just like you would if you drank all the night before. My wife always argues with me, saying that having a few drinks is not the same as not getting enough sleep. Except for me I equate the brain not being able to function to be the same. Sure, if I have two or three beers, I’ll feel different than I would with only a few hours of sleep, but when I still have to function during the day and my brain is turned off to creativity—it’s the same thing to me. I am being just as shrouded from everything. When I’m rested and am at peace, then I am at my best. I can whip up a story idea and just go to town on writing or working or doing whatever I set my mind to. But when I’m lacking in the sleep department, it’s just not going to happen. I don’t want to be creative. I don’t want to do anything. I can’t think of that idea. I can’t even see that the idea is there and that I can wrap my mind around it. It’s just an impossibility to me.
I’ve often complained that there’s not enough time. And that is true. I wonder when I’ll get more sleep and I wonder how I can write other stories or articles or create other podcasts or change more dirty diapers, clean up more messes, do more wash, and read more books, and visit more people, and watch more movies and then the silence comes. The balance of everything coming together when you realize that you can do a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but I’ll never have enough time or energy to put all my energy toward one thing. One event. One time. One item. One creation. It’s not possible. And I wonder: Would I even want to do that? My favorite trait of my self is that I am so this and that. It’s what makes me tick. I can talk about something scholastic or literary or geeky or techy or sportsy or fatherly. I can do much and listen and be all of this, but if I don’t get sleep then I’m a very tired, grumpy man. And that’s what I was today. In order to write beyond and to get through, it’s good to acknowledge one’s frustration and tiredness. If I didn’t, then this wouldn’t be written and I’d not have fun in my ramblings.
This post was inspired by the planet Splerth (03.24.06 #109).
This weekend was loads of fun. I cleaned, did wash, cleaned out one of the cards, put some oil in the car, and changed the wiper blades (I couldn’t get the passenger side on so instead of getting frustrated and ripping the damn thing apart, I went in and asked my wife for some help. Thanks sugarpie!).
Creatively, I feel about as creative as well like a blank page. I don’t even feel like writing this, but I know that I’ll have less and less time to work in the next few days so I thought that I would at least take the opportunity to jot something down. You might ask: Why am I so tired? The trip back from our friend’s house was long last night. I got in bed by a little after 2 am. Thankfully our son slept through the night but at 7:21 a.m. I heard: “Mommy, where are you?” Yep, my own personal alarm clock. Now I don’t tend to sleep very late anymore on the weekends (before having a child I could sleep to about 7:30 a.m. maybe 8:00 a.m. if I got lucky the previous night). But now my son will wake up no matter the time. See, he went to sleep at our friend’s house about 8:30 p.m. and slept for a few hours until we woke him up and then drove the 76 miles home at 12:20 a.m. Ugh. I fell asleep at one point (my wife was driving) and I might have had about 10-15 minutes of sleep. I was in the car and it was snowing (wet, warm snow) and then raining hard and I woke up, thinking: “God, we’re still so far away from home. No matter how fast we go we’re still going to get home really late.” And then today came and I woke up and felt like shit. My neck was hurting (I must have slept on it badly) and I felt like my brain hadn’t quite turned on through most of the day.
Now I’m sitting here and am trying to write. Why? Because that’s what we writers are supposed to do. Just sit the hell down and write—even when you don’t want to. And I can tell you straight up: I sure as hell don’t feel like writing right now. At least not for you. But I am anyway. My son did go to bed okay (his big boy bed arrives tomorrow—I’m looking forward to seeing how he takes to sleeping in his new bed. No more crib! My little boy is growing up). And I get this wall of resistance to writing when I’m tired like this. I just don’t want to work, or read, or do much of anything. With how I felt today, I’m amazed at how much we did get done. But I do feel like today was just one blurry, gray day.
I’ve often said that there’s no need to drink a lot and feel sick. Just get not enough sleep and you’ll have a hang over just like you would if you drank all the night before. My wife always argues with me, saying that having a few drinks is not the same as not getting enough sleep. Except for me I equate the brain not being able to function to be the same. Sure, if I have two or three beers, I’ll feel different than I would with only a few hours of sleep, but when I still have to function during the day and my brain is turned off to creativity—it’s the same thing to me. I am being just as shrouded from everything. When I’m rested and am at peace, then I am at my best. I can whip up a story idea and just go to town on writing or working or doing whatever I set my mind to. But when I’m lacking in the sleep department, it’s just not going to happen. I don’t want to be creative. I don’t want to do anything. I can’t think of that idea. I can’t even see that the idea is there and that I can wrap my mind around it. It’s just an impossibility to me.
I’ve often complained that there’s not enough time. And that is true. I wonder when I’ll get more sleep and I wonder how I can write other stories or articles or create other podcasts or change more dirty diapers, clean up more messes, do more wash, and read more books, and visit more people, and watch more movies and then the silence comes. The balance of everything coming together when you realize that you can do a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but I’ll never have enough time or energy to put all my energy toward one thing. One event. One time. One item. One creation. It’s not possible. And I wonder: Would I even want to do that? My favorite trait of my self is that I am so this and that. It’s what makes me tick. I can talk about something scholastic or literary or geeky or techy or sportsy or fatherly. I can do much and listen and be all of this, but if I don’t get sleep then I’m a very tired, grumpy man. And that’s what I was today. In order to write beyond and to get through, it’s good to acknowledge one’s frustration and tiredness. If I didn’t, then this wouldn’t be written and I’d not have fun in my ramblings.
This post was inspired by the planet Splerth (03.24.06 #109).
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