The Sad Writer

Mornings.

Dreadful mornings.

Sunday mornings, in particular, have a way of imposing a sense of dread. The morning starts off much the same as every other day for me though. Setting the alarm the night before for a ridiculously early time knowing that we’ll sleep through it. My husband eventually gets up though, and starts the coffee and sets to work making breakfast. I have an incredibly hard time sleeping at night, thus waking up early is a daily struggle. My own self-fulfilling prophecy of ridiculousness where I sleep in a little bit later each day, mess up and take naps in the afternoon, and then lie awake at night dreading the realities of tomorrow. Ah, yes. This is living.

Sundays are the last day of the weekend, so there’s always a sense of dread that seeps in knowing that I don’t necessarily have to wake up early with my husband–who generally works most days of the week, and at an incredibly early time–but that I should wake up early in order to accomplish all of the day’s (and, if I ever feel truly motivated, as much of the week’s) tasks set before me.

I believe there’s some debate about this as well in most circles. Is Sunday the beginning or the end of the week? Should we treat it as a day of rest and relaxation or jump onto the motivational train while we can and start the week off stronger than ever? Who is to say really? Does humanity even truly know the meaning of “rest”? We seldom do it.

There’s a lot on my plate this Sunday though, which I don’t think helps add to the motivation I need. I have a piping hot cup full of caffeine and sugar, but no motivation to be seen. I can’t find it even in the last drops of the cup, which has grown cold in the several hours that I’ve sipped from it, then casted it aside in order to run around and do various chores as they pop into my mind before coming back in an attempt to focus and write more.

However, I knew that I would probably only write a bit of introspection and reflection today. As is apparent already, I can’t seem to really find anything I want to write about otherwise. Every ounce of creativity seems to be gone. I have a million drafts saved in various places on my computer (because what is organization, really?) and after skimming through a handful of them rather quickly–I don’t like any of them. Ah, yes. Back into the darkness you get, Discarded Work that was Written More than a Year Ago. And honestly, the story isn’t bad, and I don’t even hate it. It just needs to be proofread and edited some. Editing is not a task for today though.

No. I decide after flicking through a few drafts without feeling any sense of inspiration strike,. These won’t do. I’ll just have to start a new work, a new draft, that encapsulates the emotion I’m feeling right now, or else, it just won’t do. If I can’t write about anything else, then perhaps I can at least write about my lack of inspiration. Surely, right?

I finish off my cup of cold coffee, as per usual for me. By this point, I have managed to run the robot vacuum cleaner (and unstick her from various crevices about 14 times in the process), washed a load of laundry (which is now drying), and put away some of the laundry that was folded and left in the laundry room yesterday. It’s only 9am. Not too bad at least, but still…the day is long and far from over and I have stories I want to write, but no desire to focus.