The Afterglow

I finished writing the first, and possibly last love scene in Masks, and it was fun. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

I spent a lot of time today weeding when I should have been working inside the house. The flowers are grateful, at least as much as flowers can be. The war for complete domination over the earth has swung in their favor, while the weeds must gnash their teeth and sing dirges tonight. It's all a very grim affair, the green carcasses piled high in the compost heap. Meanwhile, the bees hum happily among the blossoms, only occasionally put out when I work too near them. The hummingbirds continue to play flinch. I'm not sure how many hummingbirds we have now. I haven't counted them lately.

It's all very distracting, having so many enjoyable things to do. What's better to focus my time on--writing or painting? Gardening or tiling the office? Priorities get muddy when they're all worthwhile.

I want to do it all, and yet, I want to nap. I think that's because after writing a scene I've been thinking about a lot and stressing over, I have as much a sense of afterglow as poor Mark. And I get that with any accomplishment. For an undetermined period of time afterward, I'm pretty worthless. Finished a painting? Time to sit and drink wine. Got some tiling done? No housework for two days. Write a complete, pivotal scene in a novel? Sitting on the deck and doing sudoku sounds about my speed. I wish there was a way to harness that happy glow and use it to spur on even more work, but I guess we all have to rest sometime. Wouldn't it be nice, though, if after finishing a project, I get so excited I just go straight to the next one?