I worked like gangbusters for most of January. Some mornings, I would bound out of bed, race to my computer, and type away with all the vigor of the Swedish Chef attacking a carrot. I tore through rewrites on two plays, and wrote a stack one acts that is currently teetering beside me, threatening to tip over and crush this buddy playwright before he has even had his coffee. Had I turned a page, as a typing-type person? Would I blow through 2013 at jaguar speed, completing a whole body of work in the time that it would usually take me to finish a single play?
Well, no. I hadn't counted on cozy-bed season. The temperature has plummeted this week, and now that New York is finally acting its season, morning greets me with a frigid bedroom. Rather than try to boost my heat, I have piled blankets upon my bed, giving my sleeping self the feeling of a Tsarist duchess rumbling through Moscow in a troika, swathed in sables, full of toddy, and bursting with warmth.
This makes it very hard to get out of bed. I snooze, snooze, snooze, growing cozier each time I drift back to sleep. When I do haul my rump to my desk, my brain is not with my work, but back on my pillow, wondering what nonsense it could be dreaming if I would just lay back down. And yet, I have to work. Yesterday I dealt with my daylong fatigue by being inefficient for three hours, before deciding to punish myself with a three hour walk in the freezing cold. The wind was so sharp that it gave me an ice cream headache. That's all right—I didn't need the brain anyway.
No moral here, except that I'm going to try to get as much work done today as I can make my fingers do. I'm seeing Cat On A Hot Tin Roof tonight, and while I'm quite excited to see what ScarCat can do, the thought of staggering down the R train steps fills me with whatever the junior varsity form of dread is. Hopefully her performance will be red-hot enough to warm up my cold head.