I woke at 05:38 and failed to get back to sleep this morning. But it’s not the nice bright wakening that sometimes happens when you’re just fully rested. Instead it’s a dragging feeling of discomfort and irritability. My throat is on fire with some kind of strep-like infection, Bubble has hiccoughs, G. has been snoring like a train and I’m generally feeling a little like the days don’t have enough time (or energy?) in them.
So nothing new then. Another day of much the same.
This too will pass. My tonsils will do their job and rest will come when routine returns, and Bubble’s hiccoughs will stop and instead I’ll stress that I haven’t felt her move for all of five minutes.
My blood sugars were all over the place last night – down into the 3s before dinner, up into 8s after! A crazy swing and out of range on both sides of the equation. I’d never seen either number on my monitor before. I think it’s time to take it as a bit of a wake-up call though as I’ve not been being particularly careful. It’s like I don’t really believe the diagnosis that they gave me. Or maybe I just don’t really believe it’s all that serious.
It’s also hard to stick to the recommendations when my routine gets thrown out any little bit. And that does tend to mess it all up.
Life feels really dedicated to “being pregnant” at the moment and I don’t feel as okay with that as I did when carrying the twins. I mean, it’s worth it and all of that. And it’s not for all that much longer. I guess I just had different expectations for what it was going to be like this time ’round. I think I thought I’d have more energy and be a bit more like the images we have from television and media. But I don’t and I’m not and that’s okay too. I mean, it’s kind of not okay in many ways, but looking at the bigger picture it’s okay. It’s acceptable.
I started back into reading a book a started at the beginning of Summer – William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition. I’m only three chapters in, but it’s really so good. It’s reminded me that I’ve been reading far too much stuff that’s merely “acceptable” and thinking it’s good because of the ideas or structure or something, when the writing means so much. The writing is important.
G.’s agent has said, when asked, that he usually knows within a page whether he’s going to taken on a client or not, because it’s not about the entirety of the story or anything like that; it’s about The Voice. Some authors have it and some don’t. I suspect that some have it for a bit, for some stories and then it’s gone forever. I’d forgotten what it was to read something in a very good voice, because I ploughed through a few books recently that were “acceptable” and somehow that got into my mind as the standard.
Also, I suppose it depends on what you like. All the same, surely everyone feels it when they’re reading that really clunky prose that’s trying too hard and squishing in words they think make them sound clever, or constructing sentences like twisting biblical towers that just feel like they’re all too fond of their structure rather than what they’re trying to convey. Like that one just there.
Kill your darlings and all of that.
Husband seems to have a good clear voice. But it’s hard to read him without remembering that it’s him that I’m reading and that can get in the way of enjoying his books in the same way I will do with one off the shelf.
Interestingly enough I found it less true with the second book in the series. I felt like the characters and the story told themselves a little better. It felt like the writing got out of the way a bit more. Or maybe I got out of my own way a bit more in order to allow myself to read him properly.
Anyway, enough bookish rambling. I’m going to pay for the lack of sleep today. What I’ll really need is a nap, but there’s no time or space for that.