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I’ve been badly off-schedule lately: I get up at 7 am, work out while the man is in the shower, then wash and head straight to work, where I spend most of the day fretting that I didn’t write first thing. My morning is shot. I blame this on the last few bouts with the flu: there’s nothing like trying to get up early when you spent the night either puking or hacking up a lung. I told myself it was healthier to skip the writing and sleep, and doubtless it was then, but I don’t really have any excuses now, except that sleeping is nice, and I’d like to do more of it.

–Ok, ok, I blame it on innate laziness too, the flu doesn’t get the whole rap.

Really, though, who wants to spend a third or more of their life unconscious?

So here I am, 6 am, trying to get back into the swing of things. An hour to write, 30 minutes to work out, 45 to get ready for work. An hour at lunch to write again, barring errands. And two, hopefully, after work, providing making dinner isn’t a complicated endeavor. (Which means the samosas in my previous post will be a rare thing, because while they are fun to make and not too difficult, they do take more time than stir-fry or roasted potatoes. You kind of have to stand over them and make sure they behave.)

Ah, discipline. Much like exercise, it involves a lot of immmediate misery for a lot of long-term reward. Bleck. I’d whine, but I woke up before my alarm went off, and I’m feeling inordinately hopeful about this.

Gods help me, I think I’m a morning person.

Coffee’s ready. WIP 5 is open and waiting. Wish me luck.

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