Out of ideas

I haven’t slept properly for days. I can live with being tired, irritable, slightly irrational and deeply stupid. Not happily, but I can live with it. As can everyone else, just about. But recently I have just about lost my sense of humour too. As well as turning me into a bitch on wheels, it also makes it so very, very hard to write.

I hadn’t realised how much I depended on feeling witty. Even when I’m not trying to write anything particularly humorous. Even when I am being painfully serious. [My main task then is to excise all sarcastic asides and frivolous punstering, as and when they occur - Ed]. I don’t think I particularly set out to be funny in any case, though I have been known to do a Billy Connolly and laugh so hard at something I’ve just come up with that I can barely type it.

(Well? [Well, what?] I would have thought that the above was a golden opportunity for you to add something caustic. [No, not really.] Oh).

The past few days said sense of humour is down to its last, muddy and unsatisfactory dregs. There are three or four Big Posts I am working on - wishing I was working on, at any rate - but trapped here in this stale, flat and unprofitable, and above all disproportionate world, I just can’t do it. I need a decent night’s sleep.

[It's not so bad. Really, it's not so bad. One of her novels is recrudescing. It's like wisdom teeth. She'll be fine if she gets some sleep. I've kept her off coffee today, and I've sent the husband out to buy Kalms. - Ed]

You see? Even the Editor is being kind to me. I’m bloody doomed, I am.