Insanity and writing is a cliche I'm beginning to believe has legs. In the past week, I've fully subscribed to choices I'd never have made otherwise in an attempt to type THE END.
Like pro-league players entering into superstitious rituals of beard growth in their quest for ultimate glory, I decided six weeks ago to forego a haircut. Rally behind rapidly encroaching Crystal Gayle recklessness. Maybe it's a game face; or more precisely, the absence of wayward strands fallen across my bleary eyes. I've committed fashion sins of mustard colored scrunchies and pajama bottoms in public, reasoning that art defies conventional boundaries. Exfoliation be damned! I'm going for the Pulitzer!
I've turned the intermittent sweet-toothbrush sensitivity of a back molar into a full-on warrior's cry. I cannot answer to the internal salvation of my hero and heroine, nor the consequences befitting my villian from behind a paper bib in a reclined vinyl dentist's chair geared toward humiliating flatulence sounds. No pain, no THE END.
I no longer kneel at Maybelline's altar. The sniff test has been re-enstated as a family ritual for the day's ensemble. And I will reach THE END before September 30th or my name isn't "Wow-she's-really-let-herself-go"
With ten days left, the countdown begins. Inconsequential reports, imparting no wisdom other than the lint that remains after my creativity is spent. Today, I file this report:
Coiture of the day: Gray plastic cord fashioned as a necklace with a ring of three memory sticks. *ahem* paranoid *ahem*
Fuel tank: A priest's word of salvation meant exclusively for my protagonist. A chocolate-filled doughnut and caffeine.
Predominant guilt: returning a phone call that will inevitably rob me of a year of my life.
Is writing and insanity a cliche?