Happy Atrophy

I’m nearing the end of my Mother’s Day gift.  My three nights away by myself have come and gone.  It’s time to shower (it’s been a few days), pack up any remaining alcohol (not much), and head back to reality. 

I managed to add over 12,000 words to my manuscript while I was here, which means I have about 8,000 words of new content left to write.  Then I’ll put the pages through two months of editing and workshops with trusted fellow writers before sending them back to an agent and editor.  I’d love to say my agent and my editor, but our respective relationships are still in the dating stages.  I’m hoping they’ll jump into bed with me soon.

Here’s a breakdown of Garden Valley:

Sunday:  Arrive at 10:30 am to find that the owner of the cabin and her boyfriend are here.  Luckily, they were not screwing.  She’s what I call a Dirty Cougar, and I suspect that this was a close call.  Write 4,000 words.  Drink lots of wine in the hopes of passing out so that I can avoid dwelling on how scary this place is at night.

Monday:  Wake at 6:30.  Shower.  Open all the blinds to let the sunlight in.  Fruit and yogurt for breakfast.  Set goal of 10,000 words.  Write 4,000 words.  Drink lots of wine in the hopes of passing out so that I can avoid dwelling on how scary this place is at night.

Tuesday:  Wake at 7.  Fuck the shower.  Fuck the blinds.  Fuck sunlight.  Coffee.  Set goal of writing 10,000 words.  Write 4,000 words.  Power surge kills the light.  Should I drink more so that I can pass out?  Or not drink so that I have my wits about me when I need to defend myself with a kitchen knife against the serial killer who is surely lurking outside?  Stay awake until 3 am reading Tim Sandlin and taking solace in the fact that he’s more fucked up than I am. 

Wednesday:  Wake at 9 am and praise Jesus that I’m not here for another nightfall.  Can’t remember when I’ve last brushed my teeth or used deodorant, but it’s only me here, and there’s that thing about not being bothered by your own smell.  Coffee and scrambled eggs.  Log onto the internet for the first time since Saturday night.  Realize it’s overrated.  Do some quality editing.  Think about showering.  Miss my family. 

Which brings me here.  It’s time to pack up and head home.  Last Friday I ran 11 miles.  Today, I am atrophied.  My buttocks have molded themselves into a chair at a dining room table where I’ve sat for the majority of the past 72 hours.  I’m frightened by how easily I slip into the role of recluse.  I’m ecstatic that I’ve had this opportunity.  But most of all, I just need to fucking shower.