My nutritionist friend jokes that I can’t take care of myself. But it’s not a joke because it’s true. The little that I do for health is usually on accident, like taking the stairs. But what I’ve learned is that there are absolutely no physical benefits to writing. If you’re a writer, you’re fat and your bent spine makes your pelvis sag (I may just be describing myself here). But I do have tricks. I have this medieval looking hook that’s probably a stolen artifact from the Chosun Dynasty, and I use it to pull out knots in my shoulders. Sometimes, I walk around with it and my tired, bloody nose to scare my roommate to pieces. And because I have a free desk that comes up to my chin, my wrists have become little T-Rex arms. The wrist support was also free.
This is the only scent I’ve been on for 7 years. Also, that sounds dumb because the candles clearly say STRESS RELIEF and it may be psychosomatic. But there’s something ritualistic about the heat, mint, and flickering. Not really, if you don’t like heat, mint, and flickering. Also, last week, I almost went to the ER because I scratched my cornea pretty badly. It was dry and I cut it in my sleep. So now, eye drops; eye drops everywhere.
This is embarrassing. One day, I drew up this not-even-straight thermometer and I colored it to mark the progress of my new manuscript. Like in elementary school. I marked the top at 60K words as an estimated end and jot numbers down the side. This is my progress inside 3 1/2 weeks which is many times over my usual pace. I think I owe it to this exercise. It’s been fun to see (with its wonderful lack of color coordination or appeal). Having the chart makes my work more physical and real to me which I need. I suppose this time around, I just want to have some fun with it.