Am not in top shape. Probably I have had too many, or too little, strong beer last night. Or probably I succumbed too easily at the sign of a coming headache that I went back to sleep early this morning that waking up, I already have a headache.
There was nothing to write then at the beginning. I just slacked off. But when ideas for essays -- sentences came rushing forth like F1 on the race track of my mind -- I copped out by going back to bed.
Now, my head throbs in pain. Woozy that even a dose of mug of coffee and consecutive cigarettes could not add an ounce of energy in my head to get to work. Worse, the cigarettes intensify the pain in my head.
I plan to get on writing the story which is halfway done for its first draft. But could not. This is the hard part when you have focused too much on practice-writing , like doing journals and essays, that when it is time for the real work, you realize there's still no replacement for actual story writing. So attempting to write one now is like chipping a boulder with a concrete nail.
The halfway-done draft of my story lies beside the paper I'm writing on right now. It is begging for a lot of rewriting and polishing.
But what can I do? I would squint and close my eyes just to write this piece.
Note: After hours of tossing on the sofa tortured by a headache, I took a paracetamol. That did the magic. I guess, I never learned to take the short-cuts when it is necessary. Back into shape.