I did not want to write today, and I can’t even blame the Lunatic In My Head.

The morning didn’t bode well for writing.

I didn’t set an alarm and I didn’t wake up at 5am. I woke up at 3am, to the sounds of my cat throwing up in the other room, which I got up to clean because who wants to step in cat puke first thing in the morning (the likely victim would be my husband, not me, which would be really, really bad) and when I tried to go back to sleep …

I bet you can guess what happened next.

Yep. Couldn’t sleep. Tried meditating my way back to sleep by watching my breath. When that didn’t work I added a mantra: ahum brahmasmi, which didn’t help either, nor did my cat laying down on my stomach. Fortunately she was done vomiting.

I checked my phone. 3:50AM. Time for Slumber Plan B. Found headphones, connected to my phone, and listened to a guided meditation by Deepak Chopra, which did it’s usual trick of lulling me to sleep.

I get that insomnia alleviation isn’t the purpose of Deepak’s meditations, but whatever.

This would be great, back to sleep and all, except I didn’t set an alarm so I woke at 6, not 5.

And I did not want to write. At all. Not a single article or pronoun or any other part of speech.

I checked my word count over on nanowrimo.org, on the off chance I’d written enough in the past 4 days that I could skip today.

I could!

I had enough words accumulated in the past 4 days that I could, conceivably, skip writing.

Then I could conceivably skip writing this post in Medium, and gloss over the day entirely as if it wasn’t a day in November, and I didn’t need to write. I could pretend it was February 12th.

The Lunatic woke up around that time, glanced at his fiddle, which he’d been happily learning how to play, and said, Really?

You’re supposed to be the bad guy, I told the Lunatic. You’re supposed to tell me it’s okay to skip a day, what does it matter, it’s not like this novel is worth it’s weight in tapioca. You’re supposed to be the bad idea bear sitting on my shoulder telling me …

He gave me a shifty look, and picked up his fiddle.

Fine. I’ll write for half an hour, and that’s it.