This has been a funny weekend. I suppose I set the tone on Friday night (or more accurately, early on Saturday morning) when I fell out of bed, hitting my face on the corner of the ottoman on the way down. I’ve been worrying about falling out of bed just lately as one of the cats sleeps in the top corner and as often happens with cats, tends to expand in the night to occupy twice as much space as seems physically possible.
I hadn’t previously considered the dangers posed by the ottoman, as it is deceptively soft on the top, where the lid is comfortably padded, but I now know that the corners are not quite so well padded, in fact not at all. Suddenly this rather exotic, unnecessary, purple velvet piece of furniture isn’t quite such a decorative addition to my room as it once was. My face is not all that well padded either, so for a few moments I imagined I had broken at least one bone and would have to take myself on the long trek to the nearest A and E department. Fortunately, once I got myself back into bed, soothed the other cat, evidently the only living being in the household who was at all worried about me (the others were all sound asleep) and lay completely still for half an hour or so, I had convinced myself the injury wasn’t life-threatening, and by morning it wasn’t too bad at all, although I have since developed some impressive bruising.
Oddly enough, having an injured face didn’t prevent me from writing almost 3,000 words yesterday and again today, and I’ve reached a useful total in my NaNoWriMo novel (‘Pitkirtly XV’). In some ways the injury helped, as it gave me a watertight excuse not even to try to go for a healthy walk in the sunshine, or to make a last half-hearted attempt to tidy up the garden before winter. Instead I could focus on writing, that is when I wasn’t watching back-to-back episodes of ‘Midsomer Murders’ to rest my worn-out brain.
Sometimes I imagine that if I didn’t waste so much time reading the comments sections of ‘The Guardian’ online, checking Facebook to see if the people in the local group there have stopped arguing about fireworks/foxes/the merits of various restaurants, and watching re-runs of ‘Midsomer Murders’ and ‘Father Ted’ I would get more writing done. But in my more realistic moments I know this is not the case. Actually 3,000 words a day is more than enough. You’ve got to allow time for the mulling over process that goes on around the writing and which probably takes at least three times as long, if you count the times when you wake up in the night with nothing better to do than work out where the plot’s going next, and the occasions while you’re driving to work and have a sudden inspiration* that has to be kept in your head until you get within reach of a pen and notebook.
(*I use the word ‘inspiration’ very loosely here)