Sometimes, I push myself too hard.
For the last three weeks I have lived, eaten, breathed running and writing. Every free hour. And a few that weren't free. And today, my body said enough is enough!
My foot, recently healed from its ten month stint in braces and on drugs, is back to its usual tricks, and I only made it two miles today, hobbling the rest of the day and sorely tempted by the last of the pills I stopped taking two months ago.
And my brain, spurred on for weeks by caffeine and endorphins, seized up today and I came to the realization that I can't cram this baby in by the weekend and throw a few queries out the door. Not that all of Nathan's posts on being patient weren't sign enough that I needed to slow down and take my time, but today, with one teeny tiny hurdle to overcome enough to be ready, I just couldn't do it. I tried. I wrote, and deleted. Wrote more, deleted that. My teeny tiny scene is becoming big, huge trouble.
What I have is okay, but it can be better. It can always be better. Everytime I read through it, or someone else reads it, there is more to do. My husband keeps saying, "At some point, you gotta just trust what you've done is good and let it go, or you'll keep tweaking it forever." He's right. I have a novel with six different first chapters to prove that. But this one... I know exactly what needs to be done, and I don't want to peddle it without it looking it's best. That way, if I get the rejections, I don't have to question if it would have been better if I waited.
A little sleep.
Maybe one or two more days here might help.
Tomorrow will be better.