Is it the sweet cinnamon roll I have each morning at the Hungarian Pastry Shop that makes me groggy around 9:30 when I’m trying to write? True, there’s no frosting, but there are raisins, and I never miss a raisin. And though the dough isn’t particularly sweet, we all know bread stuffs turn to sugar in the factory.
I actually think it’s a kind of writer’s block that makes me want to sleep at 9:30 a.m. I’ve only been up for three hours. How could I be tired? But this final chapter is giving me trouble. Who wouldn’t rather sleep than pull together the dangling threads at the end of a novel? To complete a character’s learning curve — or nonlearning curve if she refuses to be enlightened?
I’ve never believed in writer’s block. I refuse to have such a thing. So I’ll just say it’s the sugar, and try to consume half as much cinnamon roll and a little more strong coffee. And, of course, fight the desire to spend my mornings not writing. Not looking into blankness. Not imagining something that never happened, but might.