By which I mean, drinking two large cups of coffee yesterday afternoon.
This doesn't feel like it should have been a mistake. I mean, it's caffeine. I've been addicted to caffeine since high school. It's been there for me during the late nights and early mornings; the midnight screenings, the late-nite bar extravaganzas, the overdue papers, the screenplays that just won't finish themselves. I love caffeine and caffeine loves me, and anyone who says different can just stuff it.
I know people who've quit caffeine (I'll mention Alison, in particular, because she'll probably comment to remind me about how she quit and still kinda misses it *g*) and I've even taken the extended leave of absence from time to time, but I like the rhythm it gives my life, the way it makes me get out of bed, get out of the house, get to work. Writing is a hard, painful, messy business, but it's what I love, and so yes, I use whatever tools I can in order to get the work done.
But goddamn it. Two large cups of coffee over a three hour period, after a few days of nothing but a cup or two of strong, headache-averting tea, and I was so jittery all night that detangling a knitting project was soothing, that my fingers twitched, that I didn't fall asleep until dawn and only for an hour or two.
My alarm clocks just went off -- I have to be in Sherman Oaks in a hour. But I'm awake. And I'm STILL WIRED.