I’ve had migraines since I was seventeen. I’ve had this particular migraine headache since last Tuesday. I haven’t written anything decent and I haven’t been motivated, either.
In my case, headaches are more than a mere pain in the neck, although there’s that too. They render me as helpless as my two month-old grandson. Come to think of it, he probably has a longer attention span than I do when I’m in Migraineland.
Times like this, I try to talk my way out of it. I argue with my better nature and my worser nature. “This migraine is all in your head,” I’ll scold myself. “Anyone can see you’re faking it. Get back to work.” In the back of my mind, I hear derisive laughter. My line of reasoning is so crooked that if I followed it I’d wind up in Cleveland. But can I take a day off? Noooo.
I sit down at the keyboard, type nonsense for a minute and then pause to groan and writhe as the migraine pain grows worse. Great. Now I’m nauseated to boot.
The devil on my shoulder gouges my left temple. “Get back to work,” old Lucifer hisses. “Do you think that Michelangelo stopped painting the Sistine Chapel because he had a headache?”
I blink. Well, maybe.
On the other shoulder, my guardian angel whispers that the world won’t stop turning if I don’t write today. “Oh honey,” she croons, “don’t listen to that old-cloven-hoofed fool. Take the afternoon off. Go lie in a dark room for awhile–you’ve earned it.”
Pitchfork Guy comes back with, “You don’t have what it takes anyway.” With an irritating chuckle, he grinds a cloven hoof into my flesh.
“Ow,” I say.
G Angel adjusts her halo. “Look, sweetie. You’re starting to embarrass me. Either get your BIC and write or not. Just make up your mind.”
I squeak, “But I’m not motivated.” I don’t mention that I feel like the banana slug who crawled into the pan of beer.
“I win!” Devil kicks up his heels and twirls the pitchfork like it’s a baton. “I win, I win, I win!”
G Angel’s shoulders slump and she flutters her wings.
But wait. Aside from ralphing all over the place, if there’s anything I hate it’s a writer with a jillion excuses telling me why they couldn’t write. Even worse, I hate it when a writer gives up.
I plunk my headachey breakey self in front of the keyboard. So what if I type nonsense? I’m motivated now. Guardian Angel lets out a big fat sigh.
