Discombobulated

It started with my brain. I've been writing like mad, trying to stay on my self-imposed deadline for this YA novel I want to have finished before the end of the year. I'm about two-thirds of the way through. Some very nice people reviewed my first third a week or so ago. This week, because I figured why not make the pile deeper, I decided not only to try to edit the second third (so I can send it out to some of those nice people) but also to incorporate the comments I've received into the first third.

Don't worry if that entire paragraph didn't make sense. I have no idea what I'm trying to type right now.

Tonight people have been talking to me. I only catch about half of what they say. Not just one person . . . everyone. My brain is trying to focus on writing, but it keeps wandering off into what it considers “greener pastures”. Pastures that include the fact that I haven't started my Christmas shopping, we're a week behind at work, we haven't put any Christmas decorations up, my closet is still spilled across my room, waiting for me to put a shelf together so I can clean it up, I haven't started Christmas cards . . . the list goes on and on.

The brain is fried. Down with an overload of stimuli and no idea what to do with it all. Now it's spreading to my hands.

Tonight at Kempo class we did a hitting combination that had two blocks and four strikes in it. Uh, I think I did it correctly twice. Twice out of at least 30 times practicing. My hands are all mixed up, throwing wrong punches, scaring people by hitting them in the nose (just a brush, nothing hard, I promise) and in general being unruly.

Brain first, then hands. I wonder what happens when it hits my . . . well, let's not think about that.

On the bright side, I got to go down the water slide last night!