I don't rest well. Not intentionally, at least. I can rest just fine when I have a pile of work to do and I'd rather just make cookies or watch Netflix, but when I have all my work done and desperately need to rest before starting my next project, I'm terrible at it.
I'm supposed to be resting now. After pushing through a large pile of work, it's in my best interest to rest up before I start on a new book, but somehow having universal permission to rest takes the sweetness out of it. Stolen rest is just better.
There is always a danger to me resting. I do things I shouldn't. I dye my hair, for example. At this very moment, I find myself itching to dye it, even though I swore I'd grow the last fateful dye job out. It isn't that I really want to dye it as much as I want something to do. Something creative, and if my own head has to be my canvas, so be it.
The other day, I chopped up my wedding dress. With scissors. In my defense, I wasn't resting then, but I was in one of my more creative moods. Creativity combined with no direct writing project doesn't always bode well for me. In the case of my wedding dress, I think it turned out! In the case of my hair... let's just say it will grow out.
I've been accused of being a workaholic. To those people, I say, you've never watched me waste time when I'm supposed to be working on Chapter Twelve! Chapter Twelve is the witching chapter where your fabulous new novel doesn't feel new anymore, and the end is too far away to spur you on. It's the place where my motor sputters and dies and I'm left watching Netflix, mixing up homemade bathroom cleaners and pondering new ways to be cheap instead of getting proper work done.
In my book, Perfect on Paper, I write about a novelist. She's a bit like me--incomplete unless she's got a project to work on... and she's fresh out of ideas!