You’ve seen the covers. Bulging muscles. Hard bodies. Alpha males strong and sleek and ready to do damage. We all like to think there’s a bit of that mystique in us. Especially writers, and I”m no different.
For years I burned the candle at both ends. I could accomplish more in a day than most people could in a week. People didn’t know how I did it. Neither did I. It was just who I was. And I learned not to expect the same from those who worked with me. They couldn’t handle the pace.
And then I got sick. Now people wait for me to catch up when we’re walking into a restaurant. I sleep ten to twelve hours a day. Everything I do is weighed against how much energy I have available and whether expending what little I have is worth it. I lost my job, so I took up writing. And oh my isn’t that a whirlwind of activity I never expected.
The urge to do do do is still shoving against my better judgment. I bite off more than I can chew and crash and burn, spending an entire day in bed. I tell myself, lesson learned. Again. But it’s hard. My mind still runs in overdrive.
One day I’ll grow wise or medical science will fix me.