Wake up, shove food into the face, write. Become distracted by a family of sparrows who have decided the unruly bush outside my front door is a fascinating habitat. Make coffee. Write. Drum fingers on desk. Delete most of what I’ve just written. More drumming. Do not look at YouTube, do not look at YouTube. More coffee. Write. Check word count. Sigh. Write. More coffee.
I used to have this practice down to a fine art. I would know the required word total to hit every day in order to reach the necessary amount long before the work was due to be completed, thus allowing myself plenty of time for editing. There won’t be much time for editing this time around as I’m rusty as hell but, fortunately for me, Wednesday’s presentation is a largely informal affair even if the surroundings will make it seem more formal.
I’ve not spoken in front of a seminar group for about thirteen years, I think, so I’m very pleased that I’m just one speaker in a panel of several and can hide under a desk if my part goes especially badly. My major concern is not the quality of my work, however. It is, of course, my health. The main reason this life ended for me a decade and more ago is because of my stupid lungs and they have deteriorated in the time since. But, now that I’m more acceptant of the fact of my disabilities I should also be less expectant that I produce absolute perfection every single time I attempt something academic.
This is fun, too. I miss this life because I so enjoyed this life. Ten minutes of pretending I still belong in academia will bring me much joy. And hopefully it won’t bring those listening to me too much boredom. More coffee now.